


Blind Fortunes

by Gingersnap741



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan is just trying his best, F/M, Family Feels, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Heed the tags this burn and the whole story is slow, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mild Language, Minor Violence, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Some things cannot be fixed, Spoilers, TB can go suck an egg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-19 11:48:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 158,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20209246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gingersnap741/pseuds/Gingersnap741
Summary: Arthur knows now he never should have stopped, and he certainly never should have given the man any money. Just his luck that some kindness is what started all of this. Damn this moment of charity and wherever it came from.“Hello there! Ah, I see you’re new around these parts. I’m old around these parts. Blind Man Cassidy is my name. If you’d like your fortune told, I just ask for a bit of gold.”





	1. Prologue

Arthur knows now he never should have stopped, and he certainly never should have given the man any money. Damn this moment of charity and wherever it came from. But the weight of a fulfilled bounty is heavy in his satchel and the Heartland plains look beautiful in the late afternoon. He is in a good mood; things are looking up since Colter, and no one has shot at him yet today. The camp is in poor shape, but they have started putting the pieces back together; looking for Mac and Sean, planning a heist for the Valentine bank, breathing easier in the warming air of early spring.

His plan is to circle around the cliffs to Twin Stacks pass, track a deer and bring it back to camp before suppertime. But he stops for the old man. Shouldn’t have. It always comes down to money. Things in his life always seem to boil down to money one way or another.

“You alright, Mister?” Arthur calls, squinting through the harsh sunlight shining over the top of Citadel Rock. A figure stands at the roadside, hunched and draped in a slew of different coats that all look threadbare the closer Arthur gets.

"Hello there!" It is a man with a walking stick, holding an old tin can and stooped under the weight of a large pack strapped to his shoulders. His smile grows as Arthur nears. “Ah, I see you’re new around these parts. I’m old around these parts. Blind Man Cassidy is my name. If you’d like your fortune told, I just ask for a bit of gold.” The old man holds out the coffee tin, empty and rusted. He smiles too wide with too few teeth. Heat broils up around them and makes the horizon waver.

Arthur pulls on Rosie’s reins, the chestnut mare halting in the trail dust as if she does not mind the old man’s strange presence much at all. Sitting up in her saddle puts a few feet between Arthur and the blind man, but those milky eyes lock on to him, follow his movements as he dismounts and kicks up dust with his boots. He fishes the change out of his pocket, two nickels and a dollar coin, and tosses them to rattle in the coffee can. The camp is desperate for money, Arthur knows, but the $50 bounty he is bringing back to camp with him will more than cover this. John calls him a fool for falling for beggar’s acts, Dutch too, but Arthur falls anyway. Hosea always humors them, so Arthur likes to as well when he has the coin to spare.

Cassidy smiles at the sound of gold on tin, lips chapped and trembling. “Your whole life, son, you have followed the wrong star.” He nods his head. The wind sneaks past them, quiet and lolling. The man stares, rocks back on his heels and taps his cane into the sand.

Air, dust, Arthur hesitates. He chances a look at those frosted eyes and looks away just as fast. The moving yet unseeing pupils make the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end. “Well…I’m not sure what to make of that."

Cassidy chuckles, his throat sounding as dry as an Armadillo gutter spout. Arthur starts to turn away, to brush this encounter off as another one just the right side of strange. He has had too many on the wrong side, with guns out and knives pulled. Prefers to not remember those.

But the old man coughs, a sound loud and hacking that speaks of pain and thirst, “Mister…wait just a minute. I think I'm…” Arthur turns back and watches the man's eyes clear. The lens of milk white is gone in a blink and the eyes are a startling blue. Try as he might, Arthur cannot look away.

Cassidy stumbles forward, arm stretched out towards Arthur, “I can see it. Your future. You’re going to die.” Arthur steps back on instinct, something cold and bloody crawling up his spine. His throat wants to scream but he cannot find enough air and his lungs seize with terror. Rosie squeals with alarm and skitters back. Frantic hooves and uprooted dust. “In a wash of ash and blood and bone. Betrayed by those you trust most. Unless you change. For yourself. For them. If you continue down the path of the devil, he will take everything from you." The old man’s voice is a croaking thing clawing its way under Arthur’s skin. His knees lock and he cannot move, feels transfixed and breathless with fear. No matter how he tries he cannot look away from those eyes, cannot will his legs to run. “If you care for them, you will fight for them. Or they will die. There is still time to stop their ends, yours, but you must save them so they may save you.”

When Arthur was younger, short enough for Hosea to ruffle his hair without reaching and for Dutch to claim he was a child worthy of pity during cons, they found themselves caught in a tornado. Hosea knew the signs, tilted his head just so and looked to the darkening horizon. He rushed them into an empty farmhouse’s cellar, his sensibility saving them as it always has. The wind shook the earth and all Arthur remembers is the darkness and the fear, the sour tang of it on his tongue. Hosea wrapped an arm around Arthur’s shoulders, sitting hunched down on the ground with him as the air screamed above. Dutch paced. Moldy wood and rotting earth had been all around them and Arthur remembers feeling the too real fear of the walls collapsing and burying them there. He would never see the sky again. Lost to the darkness, powerless and vulnerable to the whims of the world.

Arthur feels like he did that day, raw and bruised and trapped in the air. Fear sweat coats his skin, feels sticky like juice oozing from a rotten peach. His mouth hangs open low enough to catch flies, but closing it feels so far away and beyond him.

As quick as the hammer on a pistol, Cassidy’s blindness returns. Arthur watches the cloud of it fade back into place as though it never left, as if the harsh sunlight played a trick on him to feel this spine-freezing fear.

Cassidy shudders, the pack on his back shaking. Gone is the gut turning voice, the face of a man taken over by something beyond the desert. “I’m sorry, son. You gave me more than most do. I will give you another fortune if I may be blessed with the sight once more…” The old man shifts his weight forward onto his cane, the hunch in his back curving further, “Have your own plan. Sometimes others may lead you astray to keep to their own dreams.” These words are simple, spoken as plain as the first fortune. The blindness remains, and Arthur wants to bolt worse than a buck staring down a hunter’s rifle scope.

“No more fortunes for you! Another day perhaps.” Cassidy smiles and does not see Arthur recover his faculties and make a mad dash for his horse. Rosie stands fifty feet off the trail, snorting and pawing at the rocky soil. Her tail swipes up in panicked sweeps to brush off fat desert flies. Eyes bulging from her skull. When he approaches her, she nearly rears, but he bolts into the saddle and jerks her reins to turn away from Cassidy. He nearly spurs her on, but she races through the brush, frantic as he is to get the hell away from whatever that was.

Arthur clings to the saddle and Rosie’s mane, feeling as though he is going to be sick. It all sits wrong in his stomach, his mouth tastes of bile, terror settles into his bones and the words keep repeating in his head, _You’re going to die_.

* * *

He hates that it bothers him. It is a while later, the sun moving slow, and the blind man’s words are still eating away at Arthur’s insides. Miles away and still urging Rosie to canter across the Heartland plains, the beggar’s prediction keeps running through Arthur’s head. His hands will not stop shaking. The back of his shirt is damp with sweat and his skin feels too tight. Everything in him wants to return to camp, to drown this day in whiskey and the rasp of Dutch’s gramophone, but he cannot.

“Need to change. Change for them. Change what? And for who?” Talking himself through it is not helping him any. Breathing air is nauseating. He wants to stop and vomit, has wanted to for miles, but feels as if he cannot stop, needs to keep going. The familiar silhouettes of the Twin Stacks are long behind him.

Emerald Ranch sits quiet and sleepy nestled amongst the rolling hills of the Heartlands. Arthur turns Rosie away from those hills to the north, toward the sharp incline of the Three Sisters. He is not sure where he is going, knows Dutch needs him back at camp, but the looming hills of Ambarino feel more inviting than the flatlands. They wander up the trail for a while and Arthur cannot stop thinking. He wonders if shooting Cassidy would have solved all this, made it sit easier in Arthur’s skull, but he knows the damage is done.

The light of sunset is washing in behind him and he knows he needs to set up camp soon but _Betrayed by those you trust most._

Arthur pulls back at Rosie’s reins, tenses in the saddle until she stands still on the path. The horse has long since calmed down, now content to walk wherever Arthur leads her. She snorts into the cooling air. He has not paid their surroundings much attention until now. Heavy pine trees surround them, just short of O’Creagh’s Run and it’s calm waters. Night is settling in fast; his mind feels too caught up in words to notice, and if he wants to make camp it needs to be now before he loses what little light remains. He clicks his tongue to get Rosie to move, to find a clearing in sight of the lake.

The air is chilly, spring only just beginning to melt away, and Arthur starts a fire going to fight off the cold. Something in him settles at the routine of setting up camp. His heart begins to calm, some of the unease is gone, but whenever he thinks of that voice, _If you care for them you will fight for them_, a shudder rolls up his spine.

He feeds Rosie an apple and some oatcakes from his satchel, petting her jaw when she snuffles in his pockets for more. A pair of cans, one beans and the other an unlabeled mystery, sit by the hot coals to cook. The fire crackling is a calming, familiar sound and Arthur digs out his journal, mindful of the nubby pencil tucked into the cracking spine. Losing his last journal in Blackwater still hurts like a toothache.

Turning to a blank page, he stares at the paper, looks to Rosie grazing, the lake, the stars.

_I met a stranger today. Said his name was Blind Man Cassidy. Though, I don’t think that blind part is all true. For a moment his eyes cleared, and he looked into me. Told me things I still do not understand. Unsettled doesn’t begin to cover it. Scared me out of my boots it did. But it’s been running through my head, constant as the sun moving across the sky. Figure I should write it down and try to give my mind some rest._  
_He told me I will die. Those I trust most will betray me. Unless I change. Said I must change for myself, and for them, whoever them is. Said I’m following the path of the devil, and if I follow him more, he’ll take everything from me. And if I care for them, assuming it’s the same them as before, I’ll fight for them. There’s still time to save them, and if I save them, they will save me.  
_ _I don’t know about all that. Don’t know how much stock I want to put in some blind fool’s fortune teller trick. Trying to sort through it makes my head hurt. But I don’t want to die. And I think he meant them was being the gang and I don’t want them to die either._

He thinks back to what brought them here, this never-ending chase by the Pinkertons. It has crossed his mind before, that the gang is only running from an inevitable collapse. The world is changing, railroads and telegram poles and electric lights, and if they don’t change with it, they will die. It is something he does not want to admit, something best left unacknowledged. If he ignores it maybe it will never become real. But his mind runs with it now, and he wonders if his family is in worse danger here, Pinkertons corralling them like hogs into the slaughterhouse.

_They will die._ The forest air feels too wet when he breathes. Wind rustles through the huckleberry thickets crowding around him. Mournful howls of coyote packs sound off along the nearby ridge.

_The devil will take everything from you_. Arthur turns his head away, does not want to see the words on paper, does not want the sound of Dutch's voice echoing between his ears, _“You need to have faith in me, Arthur."_

Standing at the edge of the lake is a stag. The fast dwindling light of the sunset washes the water’s surface in enough twilight orange to make out the silhouette of antlers, huge and branching out too far, the warmth of tawny fur. Arthur feels his spine straighten, watches the thing as it looks to him in turn. It’s pelt gleams bronze, its eyes aglow with light, and he feels his breath catch somewhere in his lungs. The stag stares at him, standing ethereal still and gorgeous. Arthur feels small. His heart patters against the shell of his ribs. The world ceases to exist as he stares into the animal’s eyes, lost there, feels safe there.

A hot coal leaps from the fire and lands on his hand, burning enough to make him look away. When he looks back the deer is gone, not even a shadow bounding off into the underbrush. Sound returns in waves; the frogs return to croaking, the crickets chirp, an owl hoots from a few trees away. Arthur only notices now they went silent.

He flips to the next blank page and sketches the deer as his mind churns. His stomach heaves at the thought of reading the fortune again.

_Unless you change. For yourself. For them. Change._

Arthur feels comfortable in who he is. The worn in heels of old leather boots, the routine of heavy fists crushing bone, gun oil on old rags. He is not proud of who he is, knows he is an outlaw, a murderer with not much to justify it. His bounty is not as high as it is for no good reason. But he has always been alright with that. Maybe he should not be alright with it. He is not a good man, knows it, but maybe he could try at being good more, try to leave the world better than how he finds it. For the people he cares about.

Antlers take shape, the graceful curve of the buck’s neck, the hooves always seeming too delicate for such a big animal. The sight of it feels seared into his brain, just like the words, _care for them, fight for them_, and he cannot ignore them.

He scarfs down the cans of beans and salmon after they warm in the firelight. Banking up the flames and pulling off his boots, he turns in for the night. Lying in his bedroll, hands under his head as a pillow, he cannot stop thinking. Feels like the night air cannot stop thinking either.

“You tell me I have to change but I don’t know how. You didn’t tell me how.” He whispers to the stars and their cold light.

* * *

The next day he wakes to late morning bird song. O’Creagh’s Run is crisp and clear in the warm spring sun as he packs up. Something in him too curious for its own good wonders about looking for deer tracks along the water line.

Instead he mounts Rosie’s saddle, pats her neck and murmurs praise as she starts to walk back towards the valley. Once down the incline, he steers her to the south, ignoring the western buttes and cliff edges. Rosie never picks up speed, and Arthur does not want her to. They ride through the rolling hills of the Heartlands and edge along the shores of Flat Iron lake, avoiding the creek bed bordering Lemoyne county. Along the way he passes a few strangers, most being happy to ignore him in kind. Every corner he turns, Arthur worries Old Man Cassidy will be standing at the roadside, coffee tin empty and mouth smiling.

He sits on the lake shore and sketches pelican wing arches, crabs scuttling over sand. After a while in the sun he tries to nap under his hat, under the shade of a tree close to shore, but it is no use. _Change. Ash and blood and bone._

As the sun begins to dip toward the horizon, he packs up and rides up the Dakota river, passing their camp perched on the overlook. Campfire smoke still wafts into the sky, so his worries settle some.

Part of him wants to return to camp and stop avoiding them. But those words keep holding him back, twining around his spine and holding on tight. He wishes he could ignore it, but his heart skitters and beats out of time. Wants to throw his hands up and just start riding down the road and never look back. Wants to.

When the trail leading up to camp comes into view, Arthur feels his hands shaking on the reins as Rosie walks past. They stop at a calm bend further up the river. An old, flood tilted hawthorn tree shades Arthur from some of the late afternoon sun as he sits to sketch. Something in him knows to feel guilt for wasting a day but he cannot bring himself to give it much thought. He sketches the surface of the water and the forms of fish peeking from underneath. Cattails and ducks with gaudy plumage. Sketches at the deer on the previous page, draws fur patterns and a nose, but does not dare try to fill in the eyes. His glimpse of it was too short to capture a fraction of its beauty, so he moves on to the next blank page,

_Maybe I do need to change. What that old man told me has a lot of truth to it. Even if I don’t want to see it. Sounded a bit like Hosea if I’m honest. That stuff about the devil made me think of Dutch and I don’t want to think that way._  
_Maybe this is the wakeup call I needed after making it through those mountains._  
_Change. Don’t quite know how though. Changing for the better has always seemed far beyond a man of my nature. And going about saving the gang sounds like a job and a half all on its own. Stubborn lot they are might just curse me out for acting like I care all of a sudden.  
_ _I ain’t a good man and I don’t know how to go about becoming one. But I figure I’ve got nothing but time till I die. Whenever that is. Reckon I can try. For them._

Rosie snuffles at his shoulder just as the sun sinks below the mountains. Twilight settles in for another end to another day. Arthur pats her jaw and readjusts his hat. Camp is calling him back and his heart feels calm enough to try.

* * *

By the time Arthur feels confident enough to ride back and Rosie climbs around Caliban’s Seat, night has fallen. The darkness feels thick as she trudges through it, the air heavy with the murky haze of moonlight. Turning off the main road and into the thicket of forest they have started calling home, Arthur feels nerves start a tumble in his stomach. Nothing has changed. He should not feel so afraid to walk across the camp to his own bed. A walk he has taken thousands of times. But there is a pressure to everything now as if he will lose a chance. It makes his skin itch all over like the time he fell in a patch of poison ivy as a kid.

He shakes his head and rides forward, hears John’s rasping voice call out “Who goes there?” and answers with, “Arthur, you dumbass.” The insult is out of his mouth before he can think better of it. Does that need to change? Should he treat John differently even with all the shit he has done?

John stands on the heavy roots of an oak tree, cigarette flaring orange in the darkness. He only huffs at Arthur’s words and turns away to go back to smoking. The low moonlight hangs heavy on John’s stitches.

Arthur hesitates. Maybe this change can start with small things, with John, the brother he hates and loves in equal measure. He has been meaning to talk to him, settle the tension between them. Was also planning to avoid the man at all costs; hating his brother’s guts is a strong thing. It is not easy to put into words how angry he still is at John. But they have been brothers for years and that carries so much more weight. And if Arthur could die soon, then,

“Uh, thanks for taking watch. Night, Marston.” It tumbles out of his mouth. Like slipping down a steep hill. Flailing hands and skittering rocks. It is not the wrong thing to say, but Arthur sees it is not the right thing either.

John’s face scrunches up like he smells the stink of a skunk. He blows smoke away from Arthur’s path into camp and that may be the best outcome he can hope for.

Arthur curses himself as he untacks Rosie, setting her saddle and bridle aside. Change is fine and all, but it is obvious he is not much good at it. Even something so small went wrong. He settles his hand on Rosie’s chestnut flank and looks across camp to Dutch’s tent, an inevitable, hulking shape in the dark Arthur wishes he could ignore. He does not want to think of Dutch as the devil, as a man who knows he is leading them down a path of destruction. Dutch would not do something like that. Recalls the words, _he will take everything from you_, and the stare of that stag, looking through him. He shivers.

It all feels too much, and Arthur turns away, stares into the darkness of the woods. In the shadows near the chicken coop sits a figure, on the ground and curled up against a boulder. Once his eyes adjust, he can make out the shape of the O’Driscoll, Kieran, the kid they only just let off the post. He sleeps against the rock, clutching an old horse blanket around himself.

Something oily and mean rears up in Arthur’s stomach. He could walk over and kick the kid awake, chuckle at his fear, threaten to hurt him while no one is awake to step in. Not that they would. The cruel sludge rises in his throat and makes him gag. It would be easy to swallow that down, ignore the burn of it and settle into the habit. Phantom noise carries in his ears, the sound of Dutch laughing at Kieran’s pain and fear when Bill threatened to castrate him.

But Arthur needs to change, because if he forces himself to be honest, if only in the privacy of his own mind, he can admit Kieran is not an O’Driscoll. He has known that since roping him back in the Grizzlies. No man as skittish and weak as Kieran could ever make it in a gang like Colms’, at least not for long. And the ease with which Kieran walks amongst the herd of horses, even getting the Count to stop nipping at him, is something Arthur finds he respects. Whether or not the kid manages to find his place here with the gang is up to him, not Arthur. Bonds like that form on their own.

But the kid saved his life back at the O'Driscoll camp. Kieran deserves a chance. Deserves a warm place to sleep. Guilt prickles in his stomach like thorns scraping against his jeans. Has he bothered to consider where Kieran would sleep? The kid will freeze and catch ill like this. As Arthur trudges to one of the wagons, digs out a spare bedroll full of dust but heavy enough for early spring, he thinks of one of the others, Jack, Lenny, Hosea, sleeping out in the cold like this and shudders. _Fight for them_.

His boots snap enough twigs for Kieran to wake up with a jump, a startled yell he cuts off before it gives a full voice to his fear. The kid scrambles to stand, keeps his back hunched to seem smaller. He is still half asleep and bleary eyed in the dying light of the cooking fire and the moon.

“Kieran, here. Nights are getting cold.” Arthur tosses Kieran the bedroll, glad he underhanded the throw when the kid stumbles back with the catch. The kid’s eyes widen, his face slack with surprise.

“T-thank you. That’s very kind of you, Mr. M-Morgan.” Kieran smiles, just barely. The nervous tension in his stance and face and shaking hands remains.

Arthur grunts in reply and stalks away, feeling queasy at how soft he has gotten, how nice he just was to the O’Driscoll. But it sure as hell went better than talking to John. A kindness he feels unaccustomed to. Shame bubbles up in his stomach, knowing that without the fortune teller’s words he would not have bothered with sympathy, with decency. Those were always things too far above him to reach, things Hosea always has.

Arthur returns to his own bed and starts taking off his boots and holsters. Staring out over the camp from his lean-to, he feels a surge of heavy weight form in his chest. The dying embers of the campfires settle over the tents, ghostly outlines in the darkness. He knows them all, feels something fierce and strong in his heart at the thought of someone trying to hurt any of them. The Marston’s tent, the lean-to shared by Javier, Charles, and Hosea, the corner of camp reserved for Sean and Lenny’s tent, set up but empty for now, because they both snore worse than bears. This is his family, and he would rather die than let anything happen to them.

Crickets chitter in the tall grass surrounding the groupings of tents. Dutch’s tent sits close in the darkness, bigger than all the others, and Arthur feels the itch of a splinter under his skin. His fingers feel restless and they find his journal without him thinking of it. He flips to the most recent page, reads over his words. Even now with them settled in his bones and the paper, Arthur cannot see Dutch hurting anyone in the gang that way. Never treats any of them with malice, never acts as though the devil has taken hold of him.

Although. In recent months, Dutch has made calls Arthur knows he would not normally make. It is a shift so slight most of the others might not notice it. It has unsettled Hosea and Arthur, those of the old guard who know Dutch well enough to see the difference. A harsh glint in his eyes, his focus shifting to revenge, to anger, to hurt. It is unlike him. Or perhaps it is like him and Arthur just never realized. That thought is scarier than any of the rest.

Arthur stares into the blank eyes of that deer and nothing stares back.

Regardless of how Dutch factors into his future, Arthur knows he does not want to die. No matter how close he rides on the edge of death, chasing freedom and fleeing from the law, he has never seen the other side, has no desire to. It scares him. But something in him needs to change. What needs to change will come in time, he hopes.

What he knows without doubt is that he will gladly die for his family, and that will never change. It would be worth it. To know they live on, to know they are safe, would be worth every drop of blood, every moment of pain.

His family will survive.


	2. Bears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1: Horseshoe Overlook

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to this has been more than I ever thought possible. So from the bottom of my heart, thank you.

“Arthur. Have a morning to spare for an old man?” Hosea’s voice breaks Arthur out of the rabbit hole he has fallen down. The camp comes back to him, canvas tents flapping in the breeze, easy shade from the morning sun under his lean-to. Since waking up, nothing feels all there. He remembers dressing for the day, walking out to the main fire for a cup of coffee, greeting Susan and Javier on the way back to his lean-to. His journal sits in his hands, hanging open on a blank page he cannot remember turning to.

The voice blindsides him, makes air rattle in his lungs. The words _betrayed by those you trust most_ skitter behind his eyes like roaches on a cheap hotel wall. But Hosea is not a part of the fortune. Not the devil. Hosea is kind. Hosea is a good man, has been a good father in his way. He must be. At least Arthur thinks, hopes, so. Memories rise up and wash over Arthur, moments like sunlight on dusty windowsills, Hosea’s smile and Dutch’s laugh, flashes of everything feeling easy, but they make the words no less terrifying than when the blind man spoke them. Written down a few pages away. Sitting in Arthur’s chest with the weight of a bullet.

"For you? Always."

Hosea stands with a rifle in hand, winter coat buttoned tight against the early chill. He stays on the outskirts of the wagon’s shadow, gives Arthur his space, always does. “Was thinking of going hunting. Might take a few days.” The rasp of illness is gone from his voice, left behind in the mountains where it belongs.

“Could use a few days out of camp.” Arthur mumbles, knows by the tilt of Hosea’s head and the pinch of his mouth that he hears anyway. The imposing figure of Dutch’s tent, the shadow and the promise of it, is too much staring Arthur in the face. Not after that day in the desert.

Dust and rattling and his skin feeling too tight against his bones.

Arthur heaves himself up to standing and tucks the journal back into his satchel. The paranoia of someone stealing his journal is always present; John tried once when they were younger, and Arthur still cannot forget the feeling of fear and anger. But with the fortune now resting in those pages he cannot chance anyone seeing it. His ears burn at the thought of someone finding it, reading it and asking him what the hell he is so afraid of.

“Well come on, then. Bring what you need to take down a bear.” Hosea smiles, turns toward the path leading out of camp and wanders toward the hitching posts.

“A bear? So that’s why you need me along for the ride.” Arthur grabs some spare ammo from the trunk at the foot of his bed and hurries to catch up. Passing Dutch’s tent, flap still closed, no sign of the man around, sets his hands shaking. The bullets clatter within their little box. Arthur has yet to cross paths with Dutch, since _the devil_, and he dreads it. Dreads doubting the man he feels, knows, he can trust. But no matter how much he may want to avoid confronting that part of the fortune, he told himself to change. Rolling over and letting things go on, leaving the gang to whatever fate Cassidy saw in that future, is the cowards way out. Arthur has to try, and he feels as though talking to Dutch is part of it, will solve something so the words make sense.

“Of course! You’re the strongest of us all, Arthur.” Hosea calls over his shoulder, the honesty in his voice reminding Arthur to keep on walking. Tuck the box of bullets into his satchel and try to forget about Cassidy’s words.

Rosie whickers to him as he approaches, already saddled and itching to run. Arthur pets her forelock in greeting, peeks around to Hosea searching through the saddle bags on Silver Dollar’s flank. “Expected me to agree without a fight, did you?”

“Figured there wasn’t any harm in having her saddled and ready. And that boy, Kieran, he ain’t much but he sure knows horses. I told him to tack her up and Rosie didn’t even fidget. And that horse is about as ornery as you are.” Something thoughtful plays in Hosea’s voice. Thawing frost in the first light of dawn.

“She didn’t, did she?” Ornery or not, Arthur likes to think horses are good judges of character. If Rosie likes Kieran well enough to behave then the least Arthur can do when he sees the kid next is be polite with him. Not spit and snarl and insult like he would have before. It sounds weak in his mind, makes him think to last night when he tossed the kid that bedroll, wonders if he should regret it, but Hosea’s voice draws him past that.

“O’Driscoll or not, that boy is going to be good to have around. Now come on. That bear isn’t going to shoot itself.” Hosea moves to the other hitching post and unties an unfamiliar stallion, leading him over to Rosie and Silver. It is a dark brute of a shire, tossing its head even as Hosea pats its shoulder. “Stole this one off some bastard who tried to rob me out on the road. You mind tying him to yours? I want to take him into Valentine and sell him off. He’s an unruly beast and keeps nipping at the others.”

The stallion stares into Arthur, dark eyes covered with a curtain of shaggy hair. “He won’t take off running?”

“No, no, he’s an angel! So long as I’m near him. Sort of like you in a way.” Hosea smiles, wrinkles carving deep into his face.

Arthur chuckles despite the insult, knows Hosea only means to tease. “Alright then. Let’s get on.”

They call out a farewell to Javier standing guard, and ride into the open. Trees and bramble thickets give way to blue sky, the yawning canyon of the Dakota river. Songbirds twill and Hosea starts talking. Arthur’s fears settle at the sound, the laughter in it, the ease of riding beside a man he trusts. Snow tipped mountains leer over the northern hills and their cold and danger seem so far away.

* * *

Valentine is a dot on the map Arthur has yet to spend much time visiting. The general store for camp supplies, the sheriff for a bounty or two, but the rest of it is just another town to him. A muddy street full of horse shit and poor souls waiting on the wool crop. Towns like Valentine spring up like cottonwood saplings along the railroad lines leading to California, so many of them in the shadows of the tracks, choking each other out in their sameness. And it is always best to lie low when Pinkertons plaster Dutch’s wanted poster in every town within a 50-mile radius of the gang’s latest blunder. Luck is never his strong suit and Arthur knows when not to push it.

Hosea takes the lead when they reach the stables and Arthur is happy to leave him to it. He leans against the barn wall to survey the town, keeps an ear out for any trouble Hosea might step into while haggling. The old man can hold his own, but not every deal ends in his favor.

Arthur finds himself watching. Dutch’s teachings of sniffing out leads whispers in his ears, noticing who hangs around the bank and what unfortunate fellar sits drunk outside of the saloon at near 10 in the morning, but he just stands and looks. Nothing in him wants to notice those things, the little details leading to a big score. So much else on his mind already.

He rolls his shoulders back against the old wood boards and pulls out his journal to sketch the main street. Sketching helps sometimes; lets him think without thinking. Boardwalks and telegraph poles and smoke curling out from chimney spouts. A new house half built across the street, a barrel of shovels under the general store porch, a dog napping in a patch of sun on the bank stairs. The air warms as morning wears off.

Arthur’s fingers itch to turn the pages back, read over the words he already knows by heart. _Unless you change. For them._

“Alright, let’s get out of here. We have a bear to track. Looked to be about a thousand pounds, best I can tell.” Hosea leaves the stable looking a fair bit happier. No money in sight, but the shire is absent.

“A thousand pounds? Failed to mention that.” Arthur snaps his journal shut and tucks it away.

Hosea is watching him when he turns back, eyes on the satchel and back again. The air holds between them and he hesitates, considers Rosie standing red and gleaming in the sunshine. “You sure you want to keep her? The stable has some fine horses. With the money from that brute you could…” Hosea trails off.

A pang of sadness hits Arthur’s gut, missing the mare he lost back in their flight from Blackwater, but he walks over to the hitching post and takes hold of Rosie’s lead. “Thank you for the offer, Hosea. But she’s a good horse. Ain’t a Boadicea. But that’s alright.”

Arthur found Rosie wandering the shores of Flat Iron lake, wearing a saddle but no rider. After calming her and searching a while for anyone to claim her, Arthur brought her back to camp and thought nothing of switching saddles. A chestnut mare with a white marking on her forehead, temper quick to flair, Rosie seemed an alright name. Telling stories around the campfire that night, Uncle laughed, “Found yourself a ghost horse, Arthur! Those are the worst kind of bad luck. Cursed to throw their riders to an untimely death.” Just like anything else Uncle manages to shout out between drunken hazes, Arthur paid the ominous tale no mind. Rosie is fast enough, strong enough, and her company is what he relies on out on the trail. She might be ornery at times, nips when he walks up beside her too fast, but they got along just fine. No reason to muck it up. And it felt nice to sell off the gelding he took from the Adler barn; Mrs. Adler never said a word about it but keeping a reminder of the woman’s grief made Arthur sick to his stomach.

“Thought I’d ask. Should remember you’ve always been rather particular about your horses.” Hosea heaves himself up into his saddle and steers Silver Dollar toward the edge of town.

“Says the man who’s had the same horse for going on 10 years now.” Arthur huffs, moving to Rosie’s side and stepping up into the stirrups.

“You leave Silver alone! He’s a good horse.” Hosea’s voice, rasping and old, echoes from so many places, Colorado mountains and Indiana plains, Wisconsin forests, the corners of Arthur’s memory. All the places they travel, and Hosea’s voice is the same comfort it always is.

“I understand. You can’t _bear_ to part with him, eh? Speaking of, where are we headed?” Arthur keeps his head down to hide from Hosea's glare.

“I ought to come over there and smack you for that. O’Creagh’s Run. Now shut up and follow me.” Arthur laughs at Hosea’s retreating back, the swish of Silver Dollar’s tail as the stallion trots off.

“Breaks my heart that you find my company so _unbearable_, Hosea!” Arthur yells with a snap of Rosie’s reins, urges her to catch up. Hosea makes a noise, near disgust, but when Arthur pulls up alongside him the old man has a smile across his mouth.

The din of Valentine’s main street fades into the thump of horse hooves on packed soil. Silver Dollar races ahead and Rosie keeps pace for all she is worth. He misses this. Riding through the country with nowhere to go, nothing but Hosea’s words in his ears and the breeze of wildflowers on his face. This time with Hosea, golden time, precious time, is something Arthur refuses to waste.

* * *

Pine trees pass them by as the sun swings wide over the sky. Arthur's mind is churning as they ride closer and closer to O'Creagh's Run. He wonders if the stag will make another appearance at the lake. Tawny fur and eyes spanning time. Hopes it is long gone.

“So, how are things with you and John.” Hosea asks the empty air. The horses trot along, making good progress into the hills.

Before, Arthur would shrug, say all is fine, mention how Hosea has no business trying to mend this wound between brothers. John’s leaving feels like such a small thing, yet such a yawning chasm between the two of them.

“I…I don’t know, Hosea. He was gone for a year. It’s a long time.” Stubbornness, strong and comfortable, is easy to settle into. The way John treats Jack and Abigail is an even easier path to anger. A spark of lightning on dry grass.

“I’ve spoken to him about it, Arthur. Many times. He knows he did wrong.” Hosea tries. Always trying, always mediating, always looking for the good when Arthur struggles to see it.

_Change for yourself. For them._

Arthur has no idea how he should change. How he should let this fortune shape him. If he should let it shape him. He wants to be good, to do good for the people he cares for. And if he is going to die then why hold on to this anger? All it serves to do is drive Arthur and his brother apart. Something in him recoils at the thought of losing John. A phantom of the way he worried when they found him bloody and broken up in the mountains.

_Snarling wolves and snow flurries and numb limbs. Fight for them. Or they will die._

Even if Arthur is unsure of who the fortune spoke of when it mentioned the devil, who will betray him, he knows the ones he needs to save are those in the gang. John and his family are a part of that. Simple. Solid. Easy as bees buzzing between lavender blossoms.

“I…I want to forgive him, Hosea. I do. It just…It’s going to take time.” He knows it will take time, knows this rush to change is only in his head. Forget about the fact that he is still unsure how to go about all this. Changing his tune in small things seems easy when he compares it to learning to forgive John leaving the way he did.

“I understand. You two have always butted heads.” Hosea does not ask for a promise, does not give an ultimatum. But there is something in his eyes, a feeling so soft and sad he does not give voice to it like Arthur wishes him to. The horses begin hiking up a steep path into the mountains. Arthur focuses on the movement of Rosie’s muscles as she climbs, on something simple in a world so confusing.

“I’ll talk to him. Soon.” The admission is a deep breath of air clearing the space beneath his ribs. Feels alright in the wide open space just past the cliff edges. Brooding over his regrets and acting sour for it never helps anything anyway. He tells himself it is just another change.

“Good. I’ve missed you two getting along.” Arthur tries to fight down a surge of pride in the face of Hosea’s approval.

“We never get along, Hosea.” Arthur says, breathes the lie as best he can.

_Wrestling and mud fights. Breaking horses and teaching John to smoke cigarettes the right way. Late nights around campfires, switching hats to see when Dutch might notice, mimicking Uncle until they were all falling over laughing. Firing off a few shots until John was clear of the fighting. Trusting his brother to have his back._

“Sure, you do. Forget I ever said otherwise. A _bear-faced_ lie if ever there was one.” Hosea laughs at his own joke. Arthur hides a chuckle under the shelter of his hat.

* * *

It is the next day, after camping under starlight and sharing stories over fire-roasted rabbit, when Arthur sees it again, the wistful, near sad look on Hosea’s face. The coals of their campfire are still warm behind them, Arthur only just starting to wake up from a cup of coffee. The trail down to the lake is a long, looping one that will take them down the slope without hurry. Pine and spruce mark the trail edges, needles crisp with spring morning.

“You know, I was in this area with Bessie, years ago. Tried to leave the life. Didn’t take. I fell right back into it.” Arthur glances over to Hosea. His voice sounds so quiet, face aching in the cold sunlight.

“You still miss her.” There is no question in Arthur’s voice, no doubting this tone from a man who is always so composed.

“Every day.” Songbirds squabble in the trees. A chipmunk skitters across the trail and dashes into a thicket of blackberry vines. The horses clomp past a patch of wildflowers, early spring coneflowers the color of a lady’s lipstick, and Arthur ponders a sorrow so strong it rocks the foundation of a man he only knows as solid.

“If you ever get something as good as that, son, hold on to it. I didn’t know, then, what we had. What she was to me. It’s too late to right my mistakes; I’m too old, too much already gone. But you, you’ve got time.” Hosea’s words stretch into the air, lazy as applewood smoke.

Arthur’s breathing stutters and his lungs fight to catch up. Choking through the soot. Too much like the fortune, too close to those words. “W-What’re you talking about?”

“Just thinking is all. Beautiful country like this brings up old memories. Don’t mind a rambling old man.” Hosea waves a hand, readjusts his hat, pats Silver Dollar when the stallion snorts in the morning air. He hides it but the pain on his face is stubborn and tired.

Arthur tries to pay the words no mind. He wants to let this all out, wants to tell Hosea about the fortune, ask him what it means, laugh it away, bow his head in a bashful admission of embarrassment for ever believing something so crazy.

“Hosea…You ever think…we should stop all of this?” Fear creeps up his collar, hot and itching.

“Depends what you mean by ‘all of this’.” Hosea looks over to him, squints in the sunlight, unsure.

“Did you ever…have you thought about that again? Leaving?” Arthur feels the world closing in on him. The sky pressing down and the earth cracking open to swallow him.

“What’s this all about, Arthur?” Hosea pulls back on Silver’s reins, brings the horse to a calm walk.

Arthur’s fingernails ache from digging into the leather of Rosie’s saddle. He licks his lips, “Just…It ain’t like it was back all those years ago, Hosea. Feels like we’re running out of road too fast.” He fears the response, the easy laugh and needing to keep together, to trust Dutch will see them through this.

“It has felt a bit like driving a wagon with one wobbly wheel, hasn’t it? Why? You thinking of getting out?” Hosea’s voice is easier than Arthur dares hope. He rolls his shoulders to try and ease the tension there.

“No, no of course not.” It is a lie. A lie Arthur does not intend to speak. What he wants to say sits in his stomach and pushes up against his lungs. Hope, small and growing and fragile. Is that what he must do? If he wants to save his family, he must get them out of this life? It is a thought he refuses himself. Too much. Too much for him, for this ride with Hosea, too many ways it could all go wrong. But the thought will not leave, nestles somewhere in his guts and waits.

“Arthur. It’s alright if you are. I’m sure we’ve all thought it a time or two. I know things look rough now but give us some time. Dutch might come up with something that takes us somewhere new, somewhere we can have a fresh start.” Hosea sounds reassuring, but it does not convince Arthur. Or Hosea. The old man has been through too much, with Dutch and without, to convince even himself that things will surely work out.

Arthur cannot help but press his luck further, test another boundary. The lake glimmers blue and calm below them. “What are you thinking, Hosea?”

“Oh, lots of things, son. That’s all I’ll say. Not going to do your thinking for you.” Something sad sits in Hosea’s eyes, faraway and complacent.

Arthur wants to ask more, wants to say something that will take such a dull look from Hosea’s eyes, but the words sit in his throat, caught like a bone. Soundless and dangerous.

* * *

The bear surprises them both. It roars from the undergrowth and charges, but all Arthur hears is the stammer of the blood rushing in his ears and Hosea’s shout of fear. The rifle is in his hands, shoulder knocking Hosea aside, _save him_, firing rounds, before he can think of what to do. Color bleeds from the world, his eyes focusing on nothing but the beasts eyes, aims for them with everything he has. Red sprays from the skull and Arthur hopes it is enough.

_You’re going to die. In a wash of ash and blood and bone._

It takes too many shots. Two, three, the roar morphs into a whine as the bear tries to stop, to wheel around to flee back into the trees. But Arthur knows the damage a bear this size can do, the blood and cracking bone under heavy paws, so he keeps shooting. The neck, the head, anything, four, five, six. The bear turns, but it stumbles and crashes to the left of them, stumbling forward until the bulk of its shoulder hits a tree. It bellows in pain. A pine sapling bows under its weight.

The repeater clicks empty in his hands and Arthur drops it. Hosea scrambles up, the bear staggers to its feet. Arthur draws his shotgun from its holster and steps forward before his fear can catch up with him. He is close enough to fire before the bear can right itself, bloody and lurching under the strain of bullets in its shoulders and head. Arthur fires, fires, and even from a few feet away his insides squirm at being so close to claws and matted fur and the scent of death on sharp teeth.

Birds scatter in the trees. The air calms and settles around them.

A wave of relief, bone-chilling fear, engulfs Arthur and he stumbles away from the body. He watches it, wary of its ribs still rising. But it lies still.

Hosea sits against a nearby boulder, hand against his chest and breathing in wheezing gulps. He reaches to retrieve his hat, fallen to the ground in the scuffle, and his hands shake. Brittle like withered thistle stalks in storm winds. A tremble Arthur hates to see.

“You saved my life, Arthur Morgan.” Hosea says it with disbelief, “Thank you.” Says it with something grateful he does not need. Arthur bites his lip to keep from saying as much, to keep from spilling his guts, nerves feeling so shaken he will be lucky to get words out at all.

“You’d have done the same for me, old man.”

“Of course. Ah, you skin that brute, why don’t you? I need a minute to get back on my feet.” Arthur hears the fragility and leaves it alone.

He draws his knife and starts skinning the bear. It is enormous and weighs a ton, even just waking from winter hibernation. Blood streams over his gloves. Hosea gets his bearings and helps toward the end, seeming back to his confident self, but it is an enormous hide. They roll the pelt and tie it with heavy rope, drape it over Rosie’s back. She snorts at the extra weight but holds still. The choicest cuts of meat they wrap and tie to Silver’s saddle.

By the time they return to the lake, wash their hands in the chill water of O’Creagh’s Run, the warmth of the sun is reaching its peak. Something tense still sits in Hosea’s spine, a weight Arthur does not see often. “Feel up to riding back?” Arthur asks as they walk back to the horses. Hosea hums under his breath, nods.

“Of course. I feel fine, Arthur. Stop worrying.”

They mount up and head back up the trail, circling the lake, a mirror to the sky. Noises from the brush, a squirrel skittering or a fox dashing away, makes Hosea stand to attention, hand reaching for the pistol at his hip. He calms when there is nothing, and Arthur feels his mind race with the fear of this. He is not the best with words, and he knows it, knows it too well in the nervous air.

“You remember that bank in Virginia?” Arthur tries. It is eerie to see Hosea so shaken, so jittery under his skin. He has to try something.

Hosea startles, but he talks. “How could I forget? I still use that against Bill to this day. Walking pig that he is of course he let those dogs know where we were. Led them right to us. He’s the kind of man with luck that bad.” Rosie and Silver crest the top of the hill, peak out on the sprawling valley and plains below them. A pause, Arthur scrambles for something more to say.

“You remember that time in Wyoming?” Hosea tries.

Arthur coughs to hide his relief, “When do you mean? That time with the corn silo or when John thought he could climb that tree?” His grip loosens on Rosie’s reins.

“It’s called a cottonwood, Arthur, and yes I meant the tree.” Tension eases from Hosea’s voice, from his posture, from how he breathes out into the afternoon sky.

“You mean the time he got stuck and I had to get him down? Or the time he got stuck and we left him up there a while?”

Hosea laughs before he answers, eyes set on the valley below them rather than the brush lining the trail, “Both. I still can’t believe Uncle convinced him to do it again.”

“Smarts ain’t his strong suit, Hosea. You know that.”

They ride back into the Heartlands. Passing stands of trees, swapping stories. Wisps of clouds map out the sky above them, and Arthur forgets about those words. Somewhere in this, Arthur feels as though a bullet is waiting for him. One wrong move, a wrong word, and it will be a bullet to the back. That must be how he will die. Sudden, no warning, a bear through the underbrush. But if it comes from protecting the gang then that is alright with him, and he refuses to expect it from Hosea. This man so set on getting them out alive, the pillar guiding them all for so long.

Amber light shines over the horizon as the sun sets. Hosea does not rush their return, but when the trail leading to camp comes in sight, he urges Silver faster. Arthur follows behind him, keeps pace and settles things in his mind. Protect those he cares about or die trying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: I have yet to complete a playthrough of RDR2. I have 4-5 save files started, but I always get too sad around Beaver's Hollow and start a new save. I know how it ends, but I've never been brave enough to reach the epilogue.


	3. Bison

Red is all Charles can feel and hear and taste, hot, fresh blood in his mouth. He sees nothing but red and he loses sight of everything except the husk of a bison and a corpse blown back by shrapnel and the poacher left cowering on the ground and the fear in his eyes and how easy it would be.

The man quakes with panic, curls into a ball on the ground, holds out a hand as if he can stop them. “Please, don’t kill me. I’ve got a family. A family.” There is a splatter of blood across the poacher’s face, droplets of red, of his dead friend, across his nose.

“Now just hold on a minute, Charles.” Arthur’s voice. Not scared, but tense.

It holds Charles back long enough to breathe, to blink. The red, the blood, the rage at the edges of his vision, blurs everything. He remembers the shotgun in his right hand, barrel still hot. Sees through the bright sunlight of early afternoon, the quick wind of the plains. When he eases back, Arthur steps with him, as if his intention is to grab Charles and keep him from attacking this poor excuse for a man cowering in the dirt. The tension in Arthur's face should not be there. Crows feet at the corners of his eyes spread too far, the scar through his upper lip stretching wide in a grimace.

“You with me?”

Arthur is not asking to gauge the threat to himself; it is in the relaxing tension of his shoulders, the outstretched hand. He knows to not fear Charles or the shotgun. His eyes follow Charles’, looking, searching. Concern in the grim set of his mouth.

The red fades, drains away, blood washing over river rock in the trickle of spring snow melt. Charles feels his fingers tense on the trigger again. The poacher’s whimper sounds loud in the desert heat, but Arthur shifts his weight to further block Charles’ line of sight. He cannot see anything past Arthur’s broad shoulders and Charles' throat refuses to manage words, too dry and flooded at the same time, so he nods instead.

“Alright.” Arthur's voice is blank, and it does nothing to calm Charles' stomach. Anger curls thick and cloying under his ribs, red woven between the bones. His lungs are full of rage so bright it would blot out the sun, bleach bone and dry lakes. Arthur steps aside, watching Charles with no judgement, no fear, just steady consideration. He must see the lack of red in Charles' vision, somehow, because then he turns around and beats the poacher into the dirt. There is yelling and cussing and dust in the air.

Charles turns away and breathes, tries, through the stink of rotting bison. There is the chirp of a fox, the buzz of flies, the rattle of sagebrush. Part of him wants to be angry at Arthur for taking this from him; as if Charles does not already have blood on his hands, as if one more death will break him, as if Arthur is protecting him. But his guts churn and his skull aches at the temples. Sweat beads down his nose in the harsh sun.

“Tell me why! Why were ya’ll killing these buffalo?” Arthur's voice is a growl, but Charles feels no fear. Wonders where the kind and gentle Arthur from earlier ran off to, the man all too happy to ride along on a hunt with Charles. Not just quiet during his stories, the half-forgotten memories, but listening to him. Hearing the emotions and not saying a word about them.

The poacher admits something about a man paying them to make it look as though Indians did it, murder bison for pay, and the red washes back in, makes Charles turn.

But he does not need the red. Arthur is already there with a fist so heavy it cracks the poacher's jaw off center. More screaming, noises that echo off the nearby bluffs. A flood of blood down the poacher’s face as Arthur’s fist strikes the nose dead-on.

Charles wipes at the blood spray across his face, his sleeve staining with a dark smear. He cannot see Arthur’s eyes past the brim of his hat and wonders if they would be clear and harsh in the sun, in the violence.

“Who hired you.” Arthur’s voice does not allow it to be a question. The poacher splutters and his words are too wet and flimsy in the desert heat. Arthur raises his fist again, hesitates, and then lunges like a cougar from a tree, soundless and heavy with both hands at the poacher’s neck, squeezing and tightening until the eyes bulge like a bloating corpse.

Charles watches Arthur choke the life out of the poacher. The sound of slow death drowns in the sight of Arthur practically sitting on the man’s stomach. It is the curve of Arthur’s back, his thighs spread wide and open. Dust kicks up around his knees. His arms strain, shoulders wide as the world, all purposeful weight and coiled pressure as the poacher struggles. The hat hides his eyes, Charles has a sudden urge to knock the thing off because he wants to see, but Arthur’s mouth is calm and without clenching teeth. Strong jaw and solid rib cage, and Charles’ fury calms enough to see this and witness it and feel a need to clear his throat, to ignore the heat gathering at the base of his spine.

There is no space, no time, left in his skull to feel such a thing. It can be for later, when all of this is far behind him. And even then.

Just when the poacher is about to drop away, Arthur lets up enough for breath, sitting back on his heels but keeping his hands on the throat, thumb pressed tight to the jugular. “Who hired you.”

“I-it was a man, army, f-from Fort-t Watson! I don’t know who it was!” The poacher’s voice is a weak garble.

“A man pays you to murder these buffalo, murdering Indians just by proxy, and you don’t even get the fucker’s name.” Anger rumbles in Arthur’s voice, a built-up sound, water behind a dam. It comes to a head like a thundercloud on the horizon, dark and deep and so purpled it bruises the sky. Arthur shifts his body weight until he is choking the poacher with everything. The man struggles, but it is feeble hands at strong wrists, and he is lost to the dust.

Arthur lets go and stands in a quick movement, the bolt of a deer through underbrush. He wipes his hands on his jeans, thighs already sticky with bison blood from skinning their earlier kill. His hands clench at his sides, veins bunching under the skin. He rubs at a red spot on his knuckles, and Charles feels his throat suffocate him with the last of the red.

“It’s what they deserved.” Charles does not mind how awful these quiet words feel as they come up from his stomach like bile. He expects a grimace at his cruelty, or a jeer at the emotions choking out his lungs, but Arthur only glances over, nods, then seems to lose his nerve and looks down at the dirt. His hands fumble with his belt, check the buckle is still there, fingers nervous and skittering.

“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to do that. Or take that from you. Just…got mad is all. Shouldn’t have…Should be better than that.” His voice is quiet, a haunting sound, unsure of himself and what he has just done. The vulnerability is a hush, as if he hopes Charles will not hear it. He coughs, shaky, the sound rolling out of Arthur’s lungs as if he cannot help but try to deflect attention. As if he feels unworthy of taking up space, of using his voice to defend himself.

Charles stalks forward with no idea why he does it. In the beginning, when Dutch found Charles waiting for jobs in a shady, Thieves Landing bar, brought him back to camp and introduced him to the gang, he tried to understand the pull he felt towards Arthur. Nothing fast, no sudden need to be close to the man. It is a steady, drawn out thing like the lazy current of a river in late summer. Soft-spoken around Dutch's boisterous charm, yet strong and unyielding on his own. Months with the gang and they are on friendly terms, enough for Charles to invite Arthur out today, enough for Arthur to agree and defend the memory of those bison. A trust Charles has not often felt in his years of wandering.

But some part of him burns and writhes at the distance between them, at Arthur’s words. This close to the bison, the sun, the congealing blood sprayed across sandstone. Arthur’s face panics worse than a spooking horse. His boots shift in the dust, eyes widening under the shadow of his hat. His mouth opens to try and say something, but no sound comes out. There is only the crunch of Charles’ boots.

He halts just short of collision with Arthur’s chest, maybe half a foot between them. This close he sees the trace of hidden freckles under the long-healed sun burns of Arthur’s cheeks. He is a tall man, but Charles stands taller, just enough so that something in his chest feels content. But Arthur leans back and his spine bows. His head hangs like a puppet with cut strings, trying to make himself look smaller. The words bubble up Charles’ throat before he can think better of them, “Don’t apologize for this. For doing something good. No one has ever fought for me like that.”

Arthur looks up in a panic, frozen, like the air races out of him. In the moment of them standing there, with Charles’ words so close, Arthur’s nerves seem to calm; no punch has flown his way yet, the shotgun hangs still and cold in Charles’ hand, there is no threat besides the closeness. That nervous thing that looks trapped in Arthur’s lungs calms, as if the intimacy of sharing air and murdering two men is enough to breach his nerves. Part of Charles knows not to lean forward. He wants to, wants to like the sun wants to rise, like his lungs want air, but he knows not to. This thing between them is too fragile. He _wants_, and in a glimmer of sun warmed blue, Arthur glances up and maybe that same want is in his eyes, just for a moment, buried under his nerves and words and worries.

“I’m sorry for getting angry. Wasn’t my place. Should’ve…That wasn’t good. It’s fucking awful that anyone would ever…And that no one’s ever…fought for you.” Arthur’s voice chokes up and his words stumble their way out. He blinks but does not look away, does not look down.

Charles feels his face ease, not smiling but close, and Arthur’s cheeks flush, warmth under sun touched skin. An apology is not what he expects, or wants, but he sees the weight of such a thing from an outlaw like Arthur. This, having a man he trusts with the bison, the stories of his mother and the regrets of his father, it is not worth the risk of leaning forward, tasting sun-chapped lips. Losing Arthur’s friendship would hurt too much. A secure presence at his back willing to kill for him, it is too high a price to pay.

There is no warning when Arthur takes a stumbling step back, looks away from Charles’ gaze and makes a half-hearted gesture at the remains of the camp and its corpses, “We better be getting on. Get back to camp before…” He trails off with too much air left. Coughs. And with that Arthur walks back to their horses, anxious hands checking the pistol at his hip and waiting at his horse’s side, waiting for Charles. He stares at the ground, at the sky, anywhere but at Charles. It makes Charles want, again, to knock the hat aside, demand Arthur’s eyes, stare him down just to get an idea as to what is lurking beneath the surface of this patchwork man. There is blood on his knuckles, on his pants and his shirt sleeves. His hands are gentle at his horse’s flank and he soothes her with a murmur of words, softness lost in the Heartland dust.

Charles does not keep him waiting, worrying, too long before he stalks back to the comfort of Taima’s saddle.

* * *

Charles’ mind drifts as they ride. Nothing feels solid beyond Taima’s hide shifting under his hand. Arthur leads the horses on without a word and Charles appreciates it but cannot say as much. His brain is a mess of anger and vengeance and so much sadness he does not want Arthur to hear. He trusts Arthur more than the others, more than anyone, really, otherwise he would not have offered the hunt today, would not have let him follow on the search for those murderers. And in the silence, Charles realizes what that says about him, that he has been alone for so long the first person to show him any kindness earns his loyalty so easy.

But it is Arthur. Trust and mumbled words and fidgeting hands. Blue eyes that make Charles’ stomach feel warm. And Charles cannot care. Not when the anger is still simmering in his veins and the scent of rotting blood refuses to leave his nose.

And Arthur, bless him, lets Charles have the silence. He still fidgets, scratches at the stubble on his chin, fingernails rasping except for in the hairline scar cutting through his jaw. One of his thumbs nicks at the reins held limp in his hands. He has so much nervous energy but keeps it in check, pulling at the stitching of his patchwork skin to keep everything in.

When they arrive back to camp, laden down with bison meat and tension, Charles’ throat feels raw. He does not want to say anything to anyone, not after all of this. The anger is gone but it is there within reach if he lets himself think on it for too long. Part of him wants to turn Taima around and ride across the prairies, find some sort of solace in the open space.

“Mr. Pearson. Catch of the day for ya.” Arthur says as they walk up to the butcher’s table, bundles of bison hide and meat over their shoulders and more still left on the horses. The blood on their clothes and skin has long since dried and they must look a sight.

Pearson walks around from the back of the chuckwagon and his eyes widen, “Christ, Charles I thought I’d heard you wrong this morning talking about bison. Well this is very appreciated! Play our cards right and we’ll be eating off this for weeks.”

“Sure. I'll take care of it.” Charles wants to sleep, wants to ride Taima across the prairie and chase the sun, but knows he must stay here. Too much work to do – butchering, salting, stewing – and he feels overwhelmed with the prospect of taking it all on himself, of not having his mother here to guide his hand.

Arthur glances over to him, eyes unreadable under the tilt of his hat, a movement Charles is now far too aware of. It makes the scars at his jaw itch.

Pearson's face startles before he settles on a smile too gentle for Charles’ raw skin. “Trust me when I say I’ve prepared bison before, Mr. Smith. It’ll take a while to soak the hide, and I’ll start a stew going with the organs and such. Tell me what you need, and we’ll get it done. Hauling it in here is more than enough work for you boys.”

Arthur stands to the side as Pearson clears off the chopping block, and Charles expects him to walk off, tired after the day, but he offers.

“Don’t know nothing about all this, but if you need another set of hands…” And Charles is glad to draw him into the fold of work. Pearson can handle himself, something Charles is pleasantly impressed by. But it still takes hours, hours of Charles focusing on too many different tasks. Chopping meat and scraping hide and cracking bones. It has been years since he tasted fresh bison, and now he remembers why. It would be impossible for one man to handle all of this.

At the end of it he feels the tiredness in his bones. Deeper than muscle aches, redder than that, and even with so much weight on his eyes and shoulders he cannot find it in him to rest for the night. The sun is setting, supper served, and the campfires are full of people and sound and his skin feels too tight and wrung out all at once. Everyone in camp walks past him at some point, calling out their thanks for the tender bison meat Pearson added to the night’s stew. Dutch saunters over to thank him in person, shaking his hand now that it is clean of blood. It makes Charles feel too unstable.

He sits at the edge of camp to smoke, close to Taima and the other horses but closer still to the trees. The light of the setting sun roasts the forest in golds and heavy shadows. Somewhere in the underbrush, John is finishing up the evening watch, and Charles itches to take the rifle from the man’s hands and walk the perimeter himself. No chance of getting any sleep tonight so he might as well be useful.

A horse nickers in greeting behind him, and Taima does the same. He turns and sees Rosie, Arthur’s chestnut mare, snuffling into Arthur’s outstretched hand. Arthur has a small smile on his face, calm eyes only for his horse. “That’s my sweet girl.” A whisper of words that soothe Charles’ racing thoughts for a moment. As Arthur walks around to Taima, just a few feet away, he spots Charles and stops. There is something in his hand, and Taima steps towards him, sniffing with great heaves of her ribs.

“You better not be feeding her more sugar cubes.” Charles says, exhaling smoke with the words. Arthur holds eye contact with him, smile now gone, his palm opening for Taima’s curious mouth. A peppermint disappears in a flash of red and white and crunching and Charles rolls his eyes.

“Can’t give one to Rosie and not her. It’d be unfair. Especially after today.” Arthur says as an excuse, eyes full of mischief but at least he has the manners to look down sheepishly. Taima chews her mint and pushes her head into Arthur’s waiting hand, ears forward and eyes content when he scratches at her nose. There are bruises forming along Arthur’s knuckles, sickly yellow and purple blooming from the red welts, flowers under his skin. Something about watching Arthur spoil Rosie and Taima quiets the jittering in Charles’ chest.

Arthur clears his throat, grunts as if he means to say something, huffs under his breath. Charles looks up at him, at his silhouette against the sun setting over the cliffs, patient and ready to wait out Arthur’s timidity. He hesitates, his mouth opening and closing like he cannot get the words right, like a horse too skittish to sidestep a rattler. With Charles’ attention on him he finally tosses his head and grunts out, “You want to go for a drink?” His deep voice cuts through the haze of the camp.

Charles feels a rush of disappointment sink in his stomach; he hoped Arthur had a better sense of him, but for any other man those words are the best to hear after a day like this one. “Maybe another time, Arthur. A saloon would-,"

A cough cuts him off, and Arthur ducks his head until his scruff scratches on the collar of his shirt. “Oh, no I meant just opening a bottle and picking a spot somewhere. Saloon’s whiskey tastes like piss anyway.” Arthur’s gruff voice cuts through the flickering firelight.

The words come to Charles before the weight of the day stamps them down, and they rise out of his sore throat before he can think better of them. “Should I ask how you’re able to make that comparison?” Arthur barks a laugh, glares at him from under the brim of his hat, but Charles knows the warmth of those eyes and pays the false anger no mind.

“Devils above, you’re ruthless. Nah, just us and a bottle of whiskey. Valentine saloon ain’t my idea of a pleasant evening either. Seemed like you might want to get out of camp for a while.”

Charles considers, but the sunlight is fading, his hands are sore from salting and packing meat, his muscles ache from sitting still. He thinks of going to his bedroll and lying down, and he cannot imagine sleeping, after today and the red and all. If he thinks too hard about what happened out there, lets himself remember the rage, the furious comfort of it, he feels the ground underneath him caving in, unsettled and loose soil ready to slide. He wonders where this kindness of Arthur’s, this gentle voice, comes from. He is not a stranger any longer; while it has only been six months since Charles joined, the two of them get along well. But since the mountains, since the snow and the ice and too many dead, Arthur has changed. He was never cruel, not to those in the gang, but this gentleness does not match the man Charles thought he had a good handle on. A soft-spoken outlaw, good in a fight, Dutch's son and the gang’s muscle. But the grit, the pompous stance, the sneer and its barking words, are now absent. It caught him by surprise today on the plains, but the bones and the stench of rot left no room in his mind for reconsidering.

Arthur is so close and the offer hangs in the air between them. He fidgets, one hand leaning against Rosie’s flank, the other up at his mouth to bite at a fingernail. But Charles _wants_, and in the moments between words his want is all that matters to him, so, “Lead on then.”

Tension eases from Arthur’s spine, strain built up and coiling in a line of pressure at his shoulders. Waiting on Charles’ answer. Arthur looks down and shakes his head, and when his eyes meet Charles’ again there is a lightness in the mess of blue and gray. Charles wonders what makes Arthur this way, this bashful, insecure man that sits so unsettled under the wolf skin he wears for the gang’s sake. A predator hidden by whatever clothes it needs to survive. A sentiment Charles is uncomfortably familiar with. It is the part of Arthur he wants to know, not the violence this life brings out of him.

Charles knew to step lightly around everyone the first few months, vigilant for a knife in the back that has yet to appear, and Arthur was no exception. But he now knows Arthur is a difficult man to read; his personality switching depending on the person he is talking to. Abrasive to Bill and Micah yet so kind to little Jack. And there is a gruff clumsiness in the set of his shoulders and the purpose in his stride. Confidence founded on insecurity, as if Arthur throws himself headlong into whatever makes him uncomfortable, seeing no other way through it than to fight his way out. It is nerves and bitten fingernails, fidgeting hands and that damn hat turning down to hide Arthur’s face from the world.

But it is also warm blue eyes, tough shoulders and enough strength to choke the life from a man. Blood on his hands and his thighs and his soul.

It all makes Charles want to figure him out, follow the tracks and see where they lead, learn how he thinks, what makes his mind worry. Wants to hear him laugh open and loud and brilliant to the night sky. Wants to hear his stories, his life, what has made him into this. Wants to know if the flush of his cheeks would spread down to his chest and further.

“You must be the only man I know that has to be talked into this. Even Hosea jumps at the chance for a free drink.”

The chuckle that comes out of Charles’ throat is small and warm and fills his chest. Pushes away the lingering anger.

Arthur grins and holds out a hand to help him up. Before he can get nervous and pull back with second-guessing, Charles grabs the hand in a firm grip and stands, holding on half a second longer than he should. If they are going to drink, Charles doubts this is the stupidest thing he will end up doing tonight. As tired as he is, he cannot care much about subtlety.

Arthur draws his arm back in a motion too fast to be casual, tucking his fingers into a belt loop. He clears his throat, “Well alright then.” He ducks his head and circles around to Rosie, heaves her saddle up and tightens the straps.

Charles follows his lead and saddles up Taima, heaves himself into the saddle. His shoulders protest the motion, but something in his chest settles as they turn toward the edge of camp and urge the horses forward. Arthur takes the lead, waving to John where he stands on watch,

“Where are you heading off to? Ya’ll just got back.”

“We’ll be back, you nosy son of a-,”

“Fine! Fine! Careful, Charles. Don’t want you turning mean like him.” John laughs and turns back to the woods. Arthur leads them down the trail, mumbling to himself about John and his ‘dumb face’.

Dense undergrowth and sapling trees give way to open prairie and railroad tracks after a short ride up the hill. They turn south towards the lake, sunlight setting behind the mountains to wash the bluffs in orange and gold. Darkness will be quick on the heels of the sun and soon they will be riding by the light of the moon. Faded light drifts through the clouds of dust their horses kick up. Thick patches of thyme line the roadside and their pinkish blossoms make the air thick with the scent of herbs.

Arthur falls silent as their horses trot along and he makes no comment on Charles’ own silence. The air between them is comfortable and settling, neither in a struggle for something to say. He is thankful Arthur is like him in this, so unlike the other men in the gang and their need to fill the quiet with the sound of their own voices. It is part of why he trusts Arthur more than the others, with the quiet and the bow and the poachers. Only six months riding together and yet Charles feels certain in this much.

Arthur leads them to a grassy slope overlooking the lake. The short-lived, lavender light of the fading sun coats the surface of the water. Wind sweeping in off the prairies feels cool and gentle, carrying the sound of a coyote pack crying to the moon just peaking over the horizon.

Arthur dismounts and digs through Rosie’s saddle bags. Charles follows his lead, dropping to the ground and ignoring the twinge in his shoulder.

“Now let’s crack this bottle open. Been saving it since that train job.” Arthur holds up a bottle of whiskey, and Charles only wonders for a moment why Arthur would have the bottle in the saddlebag already, ready and waiting for an occasion. But he stamps that curiosity down, both for his own imagination of a caring gesture and for Arthur’s fragile confidence. Away from the camp, away from all the social weight of other’s eyes, Arthur moves, smiles, stands, with ease. He drops onto the rocky ledge overlooking the lake.

Charles sits down beside him. The pop of a cork, a sniff,

“Phew that’s gonna be strong. Careful with this,” Arthur passes the bottle over, and Charles cannot find it in him to turn it down. Memories whisper, his father drowning in fumes, whiskey spilling from glass shards. But those are distant, he knows they are. He takes a swig, the glass heavy in his palm. The liquor burns, and Charles passes the bottle back.

It only takes a few drinks, long pulls from a bottle he knows he ought to feel wary of. But it is fine. His head swims and his ears tingle, though it would take a hell of a lot more liquor like this to really get to him. Prairie winds soak into his hair to mix with the fading sunset. Anger sitting on the edge of his senses. Close, if Charles wants it.

But Arthur sits beside him, matching him drink for drink, smiling easy, only ducking his head to lift his hat and run a hand through his hair. Eyes keeping watch over the lake, on the slow rise of the near full moon.

It is in the fragile quiet that Charles sees Arthur. Here, under the open sky and cast in a fade of moonlight, he is just Arthur. None of the pressures that come with the gang’s presence sit on his shoulders out here. The threat of the law and Dutch’s promises and the blood creeping from split knuckles. Sitting on this cliff, he is not Dutch’s son, the obedient brute raised to be whatever their leader needs at any given time. That is how Arthur is in camp, around the other men, how Charles thought of him until just recently. But without that responsibility, with whiskey hiding it for a while, Charles sees him, with his scruffy hat and crooked nose. Fidgeting hands, one boot tapping against the air, back and forth.

Arthur is a soft-spoken man forced to raise his voice, a man who would rather avoid conflict than start it. A man raised by the harsh edges of Dutch’s words and the soft warmth of Hosea’s smile, caught in the middle. Willing to kill the poacher, but with enough remorse to apologize for it.

Charles smiles to himself, content to know. It is a piece of Arthur he allows Charles to see, something not trusted to just anyone. It is not reading the journal he hides from everyone, it is not being able to lean over and find out what Arthur’s lips taste like with whiskey on his tongue, but it is more than Charles ever expected from inviting the man out for a hunt today. Not sure what changed to let this happen after all the months they've been riding together.

“Thank you for this, Arthur.” Charles leaves the rest unspoken. Whether this is about trust, whiskey, or the simple closeness of sitting together under the moonlight, even he does not know. Everything in his head feels too jumbled to make sense of.

Arthur turns to him and smiles, sheepish and small, “You are mighty welcome, Charles. Looked like you needed some time out of camp. Just glad you’re here.” The panic of saying too much is immediate on Arthur’s face. His lips purse as he tries to think of something else to say that will get him out of hot water, an excuse that will keep Charles from thinking less of him.

It makes Charles’ next words so easy, “I am too. I’m glad you’re with me.” Charles smirks at the way Arthur flounders at the admission, hiding under the shadow of that damn hat and grabbing for the whiskey sitting in the dirt between them.

Charles wants. He follows the movement of Arthur’s throat as he swallows down a swig of whiskey. It would be so easy to reach across the meager space between them and capture Arthur’s hand in his, see how his cheeks flush with embarrassment this close.

They trade the bottle, taking shorter sips as the moon sulks into the sky. Arthur stares out over the moonlit waters, fills the silence with a tentative voice as if he thinks it may be unwelcome. But at Charles’ nod, Arthur shares stories about the gang from years past, small moments Charles will never hear around the campfires. Bank jobs and shootouts and “There was this one time in Kansas, Uncle near about burned the whole camp down with a cigarette and nearly slept through it all.” The fishing trip when Hosea pushed Dutch into pond muck just to make Arthur and John laugh. A barfight back in Missouri where Tilly stood on a table and smashed a beer bottle over a mayor’s head, “Though I’m still not sure why she did. Got all huffy last time I asked.”

Charles feels no need to talk, but he does. His voice feels heavy with rust, but it shakes loose in the calm of being at Arthur’s side. Stories of run-ins over the years, boxing matches in old pub yards. “Don’t have too many good stories, I suppose. Got scars though. This one," He gestures to the mark on his cheek and watches Arthur's eyes dart there and away again, quick and nervous, "Got this during a brawl I wasn’t even a part of. Fell on some shattered glass when someone pushed me to the floor.” Arthur laughs, a wheeze on the tail end of it, and Charles smiles with the sound.

Arthur never mentions the bison, and Charles is thankful. Some emotion, fragile and tender, sits in his chest, but the anger, always so close, coiling between his bones, searching for a way out, feels calmer now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: I always play High Honor Arthur. Always. Except on that Charles hunting mission. It is the one exception I make because I can never bring myself to let the other poacher live.


	4. Irishman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Mentions of torture. Blood.

Nothing involving Sean MacGuire can ever be quiet. Not even his rescue. It is the last coherent thought Arthur has as bullets start raining down on them from the clifftops. He passes Javier in their mad dash for cover and sees a smile on his face.

“Sean wouldn’t have this any other way!” Javier shouts over the craze of bullets and bounty hunters yelling.

Arthur’s blood is already rushing so he grits his teeth, fires off a pair of headshots in quick succession, “Let’s just grab the kid and get the hell out of here!” It is a mad dash up the canyon with bullets whizzing past his head at every step. This he knows. This is not threatening or killing innocent folks, nothing to second guess. There is no question of whether this fight is right or wrong. His head feels clear and open with it. They will get Sean back. The words have been running through his head, racing and screaming, since Trelawney found them outside the saloon in Valentine yesterday; Arthur covered in mud, Javier bruised, Charles unruffled. Dutch’s suggestion of returning to camp, Bill's scoffs, fell on deaf ears. Arthur wiped the mud off his face and mounted up to follow Charles and Javier to the Plains, refusing to stop until they reached Blackwater.

Before, Arthur would not have bothered, would have gone back to camp to clean up and bandage his bleeding face. Lick his wounds and patch up his pride before bothering to rescue Sean of all people. But now, _change for them fight for them_, Sean is in danger and they are going to get the kid back.

A shout comes from the top of the cliff, where Charles should be taking shots at those down below, and Arthur looks up. The glare of harsh sunlight keeps him from seeing much, but he knows a knife fight when he sees one. Or, more a knife and hatchet fight if Charles is involved. But there are too many men surrounding one. That figure, dark hair, Charles, pushed down onto his back and nearly falling off the cliff, hair hanging long over the rocks.

The world washes out, the black and white of a nightmare, and in between breaths Arthur raises his rifle to aim at the bounty hunter’s head. Charles pushes the man off in a desperate heave, and the moment he looks clear, Arthur takes the shot. The head bursts in a spray of gore and Charles is back into the fight as the body falls, not hesitating to rush at another attacker. The fight picks up in the next moment and Arthur cannot linger on what Charles might look like in a fight like this, snarling and bloody and strong.

The camp is not much, but at the end of it stands a tree with Sean hanging from one of the branches. His feet are bound in thick rope and the kid starts shouting the moment the gunfight spreads into the clearing. “And the cavalry arrives!”

Bounty hunters scatter like ants in the camp. Some hiding in cover, a few choosing to flee while they have the chance. Near where Sean hangs, one man stands firm, aiming his pistol down at Sean’s head, disregarding the firefight, and Arthur sees red. It screams through his veins and time stills. He raises his pistol, wonders if this will be it, how the kid dies, strung up like a pig. The old beggar’s voice bellows in his head like an oncoming train, _fight for them_.

Shots fire, the bounty hunter’s gun falls to the dirt, and the four men closest to Sean fall, heads shot out and pouring blood. Sean flinches, terror plain on his face, and yells, “Arthur you demon bastard! Shoot ‘em all why don’t you?”

The fight calms after that, well placed shots taking out the last stragglers. Silence hits them all when the last bounty hunter falls to Javier’s rifle. Charles drifts over to them after checking the cliffs. Arthur’s head still rings, blood pounding in his skull. He looks around them with a frantic edge in his bones, finger on the trigger, ready. One shot is all it would take. A straggler shooting one of them in the back.

“Took you long enough. Bloody hell, you lads took your sweet time.” Sean, strung up by his ankles, at least has the energy to whine at them.

“Shut up, MacGuire. We came back for you, didn’t we?” Javier laughs as he loots the bounty hunters, pocketing money and ammo as he goes.

“You did, and I’m right grateful. Now cut me loose. My brain has been soaking in blood too damn long.” When Sean’s words earn him none of Javier's attention, he looks to the closest other person.

“Charles, you surly bastard. Love you to bits did I ever tell you that? Thought you ought to know seeing as you’re about to cut me down from here, aren’t you?” Sean’s voice does not plead, but it comes close.

“No, I didn’t know that.” Charles deadpans, voice dark and smoky, standing with his rifle at the ready and watching the camp perimeter. There is a drying splatter of gore on his coat. Brackish red soaking into dark cotton.

Days have passed since hunting bison, since red blood spraying across sandstone, since Arthur’s hands at a man’s throat. Days since that night out by the lake, whiskey on prairie winds and Charles’ dark hair spilling in the moonlight. Arthur wishes he could forget those little things, the details that make his ears burn and his tongue feel too big for his mouth, even now. If he lets himself think on it for too long, his heart beats faster than a jackrabbit and nothing good ever comes from that feeling. It makes shame well up in his throat, thick and cloying as cigar smoke. Before, he felt just fine, thought of Charles as a part of the gang, a man with a good head on his shoulders that they could rely on. Strong and dependable and good. Handsome. Until Charles shot that poacher. There was pain and anger in Charles, emotions he had no reason to show around the gang. Voice rasping and hurt. It was gritted teeth and aggression and trust and Arthur could not look away, did not want to.

And sitting by the lake felt like the first time in too long where Arthur’s breathing came easy, where he knew Charles would not needle at him for brooding over the past. For a while the fortune did not echo in Arthur’s ears, his worries calmed. It was the light of the moon riding lake waves, gentle as Charles’ smile when Arthur told him some old, sun faded memory.

Arthur coughs and stalks over to where Sean sways. “Will you pipe down already? I’ll get you down from there. Charles, keep watch.” Charles turns to the tree line with a hint of a smile. Sean’s shirt hangs around his neck and as Arthur walks closer, he sees the kid’s ribs sticking out from his skin like a starving animal.

“You gotta teach me that quick shot trick someday, Arthur. It’s fucking amazing.” It is comforting to hear the kid’s voice, even if Arthur will never dare say something so soft aloud. But Sean is alive and bright and strong enough to remain that through his imprisonment. The bags under his eyes and the bruising on his face and the blood dried under his nose is all too loud in Arthur’s face and he just wants to get the kid back to camp.

“Tried to teach John once, and that went to shit. Doubt you’d be much better of a student.” Arthur mumbles so only Sean hears, stepping close so he can cut at the rope holding Sean up. The bruises peppering his skin make Arthur grit his teeth.

“Lovely angle this is.” Sean’s voice pipes up from just below Arthur’s belt.

“Will you shut up already?” Arthur huffs. Sean winces when Arthur grabs ahold of his ankle. “Came as quick as we could kid. Weren’t going to leave you to this. You’re safe now.” Arthur saws at the rope. Sean shuts up, and Arthur lets him be. He does not want to know if the kid thought they would leave him for dead, like how near every other gang operates. His heart hurts at the idea of leaving anyone behind.

The ropes are thick and fray slower than Arthur wants. Every moment is another chance for Pinkertons to show up and draw out another fight. Javier finishes his rounds and mirrors Charles, circling the camp and whistling for their horses. Hoofbeats approach, and when Rosie trots out from the brush, Arthur feels his lungs empty with relief. Sean finally drops, deadweight in Arthur’s arms as the rope gives out, and he shoulders the kid’s weight as best he can to soften the landing. Sean does not buckle, but he leans heavy on Arthur and it is clear he cannot walk on his own yet.

“C’mon kid, let’s get you back to camp.” Javier and Charles flank him as they shuffle to the horses, ready to take Sean’s weight from him. But when he heaves Sean up and on to Rosie’s back, Arthur breathes easy.

The kid is silent. No babble, no bluster. It is strange enough for Javier to look at Arthur with a frown at his mouth, a question in his eyes. Arthur shrugs, pats a hand at Javier’s shoulder and hopes it reassures the man. So long as they get Sean back to camp everything will be fine. Arthur steps up into the saddle in front of Sean and there are weak hands gripping at the back of his shirt and Arthur’s throat threatens to close. “Now go on. Both of you, get. Take separate routes and make sure no one follows you.” Arthur barks to Javier and Charles, spurring Rosie forward and away from the camp.

Charles’ eyes pin Arthur for a moment too long to be casual. The air holds like the ozone before a lightning strike, but then he leads Taima toward the treeline. “Alright. Stay safe, Arthur.”

“Meet you back at camp. We’ll take the scenic routes.” Javier calls over his shoulder, already heading downstream towards the lake shore.

The three horses split off from each other. When Arthur loses sight of them, he sighs into the cooling air of late afternoon.

He expects Sean to talk, to fill the silence with the comfort of his own voice. But he sits silent behind Arthur. He keeps distance between their bodies, but he cannot help the needy grip at Arthur’s shirt, all that keeps him balanced on Rosie’s back. Arthur follows the Dakota river, eyeing the banks for an easy place to cross. Spring snow melt bloats the waterline and it takes miles for a shallow path to appear, for the air between Arthur and Sean to shift. Miles of forests and scurrying rabbits and Sean taking too heavy breaths to try at speaking. Arthur knows the feeling himself, the weight of it, and lets him be.

“You always been one of them quiet ones, Arthur. Stoic, silent bastard you are… But you’re...you’re a good man, a man that...well...I just...And your shooting! You always been a good shot, always known that, but seeing it that close...I mean...I mean...You...You saved my life there you did... and I...” Sean’s lungs run out of steam, a locomotive stuck on the tracks. His words lose their volume, their shape, and Sean’s voice becomes nothing more than the wisps of air that drift between wildflowers.

“Thanks, Arthur.” Sean’s voice is not meant to be so quiet, such a ragged, whispered sound that drifts up from between Arthur’s shoulder blades. It feels wrong for him to be anything but the loud-mouthed, headstrong little brother Arthur sees him as.

Sean and he have always gotten along in a way, the same way he's seen ravens pull coyote tails for fun. But even in that, Arthur feels the weight of Sean admitting this, how much sits behind that word. _Thanks._

“Sure, kid. Anytime.” He worries the words will not be enough, that Sean needs to hear more. His shoulders prickle with the urge to talk for the kid’s sake, to try and be like Dutch for once in his sorry life and say something that will make the kid feel better. It is pathetic that he is the age he is and still finds saying the right thing beyond him. The fortune teller’s words ring in his head like a mournful church bell _you must change for them,_ and Arthur feels the creeping sense of time falling away from him.

The fingers clutch tighter at his shirt and any words die halfway up his throat.

The camp is a bustle of activity when they arrive. Crates of booze sit stacked near the chuckwagon and Javier is already tuning his guitar by the campfire. The hitching posts stand empty, the herd of horses already winding down for the day near the trees. With only Taima still missing, Arthur hitches Rosie close to the herd. He jumps down from the saddle, giving Sean the chance to fumble down onto his own feet and regain his balance with some degree of privacy against the tree line. The warm hand that pats Arthur’s shoulder as they walk towards the tents is all the thanks Sean will ever give, but it is enough.

“Everyone! Your favorite Irishman is back! Drinks all around!” Sean shouts when the main campfire is in sight, voice loud as a bullhorn. As it should be.

The camp erupts in whoops and hollers and something settles in Arthur’s chest, like a whistling kettle taken off the fire. “No whiskey for you yet. Go get something to eat from Pearson, kid. Those hunters whittled you down to skin and bones and that drink is going to hit you like a brick to the face.”

“Stop mothering me, Arthur! I-,” All it takes is a glare from Arthur, a look he has used many times over the years on John to get the dumbass to do as he’s told. It is a look charged with knowing all the stories no man wants told around the campfire. Not that he would betray Sean like that, but it makes the kid duck his head and shuffle to the chuckwagon. “Alright, alright, if it’ll shut you up.”

Karen giggles like a schoolgirl and follows Sean with a jump to her step, with a relief in her eyes that has been absent for weeks. Sean, even half-starved and beaten down as he is, looks to her with the shine of a fool in his eyes.

The bruises at Karen’s lip are still fading, near two weeks gone, but they make Arthur’s blood boil all the same. It was before the fortune, before he tried to be a better man, but no part of him could ever regret kicking that man’s nose into his skull for what he did. No way in hell.

Sean sees the bruises, but in the rush of getting back to camp and the excitement in Karen’s eyes, he must think better of asking for now. Knowing the kid, he’ll wait until later when the potential for a fight will be less public.

They disappear in the mess of tents and ropes that make up the camp. Arthur takes his time untacking Rosie, brushes her down after the long day and feels his heart settle. With Sean back, they are a family again, not missing a piece they never knew they needed to be whole. 

* * *

The party in Sean’s honor goes on for hours, the air full of Javier’s guitar strumming and people laughing. Sunset skies fill with the ink of night, the muted life of the campfires. Arthur has drunk through a few bottles, first beer and now a hard rye whiskey, and his head is starting to swim. His feet feel too heavy. He dances with Mary-Beth to the swoon of Dutch’s gramophone and nearly loses her in a twirl that goes for too long.

She giggles, the sound of dewdrops on snowbell flowers, when he bows at the end. “Thank you for the dance, Mr. Morgan.”

Arthur smiles, knows it is safe to be kind in the light of her gentle eyes, “Thank you, Miss Gaskill. I’m gonna go sit down now before I embarrass myself much more.” She curtsies and Arthur tips his hat before stumbling off. He joins the others by the fire, family surrounding him, warmth and life.

It is not often Arthur catches himself thinking this way, admits to himself in small moments like these. But this is his family, here and whole and safe. In the light of the campfire, in the glow of laughter and guitar strings, everything feels alright. Tilly laughs and Sean cheers, with Karen at his side and Hosea watching over them all. For the first time in weeks, Arthur feels the tension in his ribs and neck easing, and his foot taps to the rhythm of whatever song the gang sings.

When Sean regales the group with his story of the bounty hunter shootout, embellishing for all he is worth, Arthur just rolls his eyes and looks away from the others as they whoop and holler at the tale of his skill. Knowing his trigger finger is fast enough to save his family is enough for him. Never liked being the center of anything. Javier chimes in about the battle, Sean tells of seeing his life flash before his eyes on the end of that rope as Arthur channeled a hellish demon to save him, and Charles,

Charles isn’t there. The moment he realizes, Arthur glances around them into the darkness, feels sad and wonders why, though his whiskey fogged brain doesn’t get much further than that. The man can be quiet, so maybe Charles prefers to stay away from parties like this. Arthur cannot blame him. He is sure the combination of his and Sean’s singing is enough to drive anyone away. But now that he notices, the party does not feel as warm. They are not whole, not without everyone.

He stands, patting John’s shoulder to keep his balance. Does not remember John sitting down next to him but that is alright. John is a good dumbass of a brother. No one pays Arthur much mind as he stumbles away from the firelight to check the edges of camp. He finds nothing in the tents, the wagons, and when he checks behind the chicken coop he laughs at his own stupidity; the chickens are asleep, why would Charles be here?

Standing amongst the herd of horses, Taima’s spots are bright in the moonlight. She watches him with calm eyes as he stumbles over, clumsy from the beer sloshing around in his head. Rosie stands beside her, such a good horse, such a good girl, though he misses Boadicea something fierce.

“Was awful how she died.” He murmurs to the night. Taima snuffles into his hand. Both mares search his pockets for treats while the moon dapples their hides with muted light.

“Sorry, ladies. Don’t got nothing for you.” The forest looks warm tonight, the shadows soft and safe. Maybe Charles is out there, amidst the trees and the bracken. As good a place as any to hide from the camp.

Arthur stumbles forward, intent on finding out. His boots trip over branches and snap twigs. Some animal startles in the grass and scampers off. After a few tree lengths he hears the ruckus he is making and stops. If Taima is in camp then Charles must be out here in these woods, somewhere, and a quiet man like him will be impossible to find for a man as drunk as Arthur. He looks down to the half-empty bottle still clutched in his hand, the dark glass only a vague shape in the shadows of oak and poplar trees.

His feet lose their balance, and he leans on a pine tree to catch himself. The ground is a carpet of old needles and looks soft enough. Kicking a few pinecones out of the way, he sits against the tree trunk, takes a swig of whiskey, and settles in to wait. He will have no chance of tracking a hunter like Charles through this forest, but maybe Charles will follow all the ruckus he made and find him. That would be nice.

He digs his fingers into the thick layer of needles covering the tree roots. Maybe if he makes more noise, Charles will show up sooner. The night is nice, with the breeze and the chitter of crickets and all, but Charles is nice too and Arthur wants to see him. Another swig from the bottle burns his throat, and he starts whistling. He can carry a tune sober, but he is drunk and cannot do this song any justice.

One breath leads into the next, his shoulders slump against the rough bark behind him. He drank too much beer earlier that is why he feels so tired. But he had to keep drinking to keep up with John. Marston holds his booze worse than Arthur, and he wanted to see something exciting happen during the party. Like that night at the saloon in Virginia neither one of them remembers. Like that time in Kansas when John tried to stand on Old Boy’s saddle and ride around like a circus performer. Now that was damn funny. The forest around him starts getting darker, but his gut still tells him it feels safe, his family is close and okay, so it must be alright for things to be getting darker. His eyes are tired too. It has been a long day.

“-alright, Arthur?” A voice breaks him out of it and suddenly he can see through the darkness again. Its Charles, good old Charles, standing over him with a rifle in his hands.

“Huh?” Arthur's mouth can only manage so much right now. Must have dozed off for a minute there. Charles leans closer, moonlight carving his cheekbones, and long hair dark as ink trailing over his shoulder. Arthur likes looking up at him like this, likes the thick line of the man's shoulders.

“I asked if you were alright. Are you drunk?” Charles sounds calm, not angry. But his eyebrows are bunching together. Maybe Arthur’s whistling was too loud.

Arthur rouses himself enough to say, “Well fancy seeing you here, partner.” Even with his vision swimming and the shadows playing across them both, Arthur still sees the smile sneak onto Charles’ face.

“And fancy seeing you here.” Arthur likes that smile so damn much, the small one that Charles does not use around the gang. Maybe just him, just Arthur.

“Why’re you out here? Thought you’d want to…I don’t know.” Arthur flounders, but the uncertainty fades like dandelion seeds on the wind. He is sitting on the ground so at least he is not swaying like a drunkard. He kicks at a pinecone with his boot. “It’s a party for everybody. You weren’t there.”

There is that smile again, gentle and patient. “I don’t like parties much. And someone had to take watch.”

Arthur’s stomach rolls, and he lets his head loll to the side, looking to the rifle Charles grips in his strong hands. Hands that kill, gentle hands. Arthur only takes watch on occasion; the old guard rarely ever does. It is trusted to the younger men, and John is the one to hash out a rotation that works, but he doubts anyone thought of guarding the camp tonight. The others are all back in camp, hammered or on their way to, and that leaves Charles out here. Alone.

“That ain’t right. You were just gonna sit out here all night?”

“I don’t mind it.” Charles shuffles his feet, shifts his weight. The crickets chatter on as Arthur tries to know what to say, tries to parse something from his drunk skull that will make this better.

“You do so much. More than any of us. Shouldn’t fall to you just cause…” Arthur stares up at Charles, marvels at the intensity of his eyes, the confidence in his stance. Such strong legs.

“Someone has to. Didn’t think anyone would notice.” Charles sounds so steady, a boulder in the wind.

“Well I noticed. Didn’t want you to be off by yourself. I know what that’s like." His words pause, but he reminds himself to keep talking, to not bring Charles down with how sad Arthur can be sometimes. "Brought whiskey for you too. Drank some of it on the way here though. But it’s a party. Tonight’s for celebrating.” Arthur smiles, waves the bottle a bit so the amber liquid sloshes against the sides, hopes the charm people sometimes go on about him having will come out now.

Something dark passes over Charles’ face, maybe a shadow, maybe not, and he shakes his head. Arthur’s heart falls, fears Charles is about to tell him off, until Charles clears a seat beside him and sits down against the pine trunk. Their shoulders brush and Arthur wonders if he is supposed to lean away.

Charles smiles again, that darn smile. It is probably at Arthur’s expense but that is fine. He leans into Charles’ side. His shoulder is warm, and he does not push Arthur away. “You’re stubborn.”

“As a mule.”

Charles only drinks from the bottle of whiskey once, enough to taste and wet his throat before he passes it back.

Arthur stops drinking, hoping he will sober up enough to not make a complete fool of himself in front of Charles. So, he fiddles with the bottle of whiskey, tracing the smooth glass with his fingers. He expects the silence between them to make his skin jitter, but the night remains calm.

“Thanks for your help today. With Sean, I mean.” Arthur meant to say something earlier, but the celebration stole his attention.

“Of course.”

“I know he don’t shut up, but…he’s good to have around.” Arthur wants to turn and look, see if Charles’ mouth is smiling or frowning. He does so much frowning, so weighed down with the burden of the world.

“It is nice to have him back.”

“Like the little brother you never wanted.”

Charles huffs a laugh under his breath. Arthur’s stomach flutters at the sound and he tilts his head down, busies himself with tracing the notches of glass at the bottom of the bottle. Hopes he is not blushing. Remembers it’s too dark to see anyway.

Arthur is not sure if Charles is looking at him and nerves tickle in his stomach. He hopes there has been enough time between the bison hunt and now for Charles and him to be on level footing again. Whatever happened there on the plains haunts his dreams. It is the buzz of flies and a red haze over his vision and too little space. He finds himself wondering if Charles would have leaned forward if Arthur had not spooked. Of course, he would never, but Arthur wonders. His nerves tethered him back and kept him from leaning forward in the desert heat, from shuffling closer in the soft night of the cliffside. Sitting close and watching the lake made every inch between them feel like miles and all Arthur wanted was to look into Charles’ eyes and not be afraid.

Even now he is afraid. Every rustle in the woods around them makes his muscles tense. If someone in camp comes across them, sitting close and quiet like this, they will ask questions. Always ask questions, nosy bunch they are. But the moonlight drifting between the branches, the shadows dancing with the faint breeze rolling in off the plains, it all makes his heart race and the distance between them feels so small.

The crickets quiet, and the wind eases until the night holds its breath. Arthur digs in his guts for something to say. The fear of being awkward around Charles itches at the back of his skull. Maybe it is the booze that makes this so easy for Arthur, so comfortable in Charles’ presence like this. He wonders if he should ask if Charles feels okay about it too, but no amount of whiskey will let him do that.

“In the canyon,” Charles’ voice, smooth and deep, breaks the calm. “Thanks for that shot.” Arthur glances over to him, but Charles sits turned away, face hidden in the mess of shadows. Keeping watch like he said he would. Until Arthur came over and bothered him. Always so watchful, so careful.

“Oh. Don’t mention it. Looked like you had things pretty well in hand.” Arthur looks down to where his hands are fidgeting with the bottle. Fingernail tapping against the thick glass.

“It felt like…” Charles pauses, huffs into the night air, “When I was still on my own. I didn’t have anyone to…just thank you.” Arthur feels his heart stutter and tries to hold back the dumb smile spreading across his face. _You must save them_ repeats in his head, and he hopes he has, that he will not lose this friend.

“Glad I could be there for you.” Arthur says it without doubt curdling his voice. He may not be sure of much but saving Charles' life is something he could never regret. Charles glances to him, the movement sharper than he might intend, but whatever worry he has melts into a content smile. Arthur hopes, desperate, that Charles hears him.

They sit for a while, shoulders pressing together and breathing calm. Arthur feels himself dozing off again, but he wills it away, does not want this night to end. With Blackwater and the mountains and all, he wants nothing more than to live in this weightless calm. The safety of his family and the protection of Charles’ strength. He wants to sit here in the quiet forever, if Charles will let him. Sit together until the sun comes up so he can try to sketch out the slope of his brow, the wide nose and full lips, the warm eyes.

Those thoughts hit him like a sucker punch to the gut. His ears feel too warm and the darkness crowds in. The yellowing bruises on his knuckles twinge. Suppose it is too much to hope this part of him would be easy to change. This part of him he never gives a voice, weak and soft and wrong, swallows it down like bitter medicine. It is his cue to take his leave, to avoid saying something that will only get him into trouble.

“I should go sleep this off.” He says it without moving, savoring these last moments in the darkness, in the warmth. He feels as if nothing bad can happen so long as Charles sits beside him.

“You should. Tomorrow will come early.” Charles makes no move to leave either.

“I bring you a drink and I don’t even get walked home afterwards?” Arthur stumbles to his feet wishing he did not drink quite so much because the world sways and he knows he is making a goddamned fool of himself.

“Next time.” Charles stands beside him, still and silent, and the gloom nearly hides his smile. There is a hand at Arthur’s shoulder, warm and steadying.

“Next time, huh? I’ll hold you to that…Thank you, Charles, for taking watch and for doing so much.” Arthur hopes there is no slur to his words, hopes he does not imagine the warm spark in Charles’ eyes.

“Good night Arthur.” A pat on his shoulder, heavy and sure, before Charles steps away.

“Goodnight yourself.” Arthur says it a touch too loud, too sure of himself, and now he thinks he really should go.

The path back to camp is a treacherous one. Arthur’s feet catch on branches and clusters of briars. Good thing he doesn’t care about making noise. When he chances a look back, Charles is already gone, lost to the woods like some campfire story ghost.

* * *

The camp is quiet when he returns to the clearing. Fires still burn as hot coals, but no one sits around them. Must have been sleeping out in the woods longer than he thought. He creeps towards his lean to, hoping he avoids tripping over anything. Knowing his luck, he will break something with his face on the way down. His mind is just shy of drunk now, close enough to stumble but sober enough to know he does not want to wake anyone up. They have all had a long day, Sean most of all, and the kid needs his sleep. Arthur thinks this, nods to himself, just as he rounds the corner of Dutch’s tent, and sees Sean sitting on the cliff edge.

The kid, bowler hat a silhouette against the moonlight, sits on the crumbling stone lip looking out over the Dakota. He is far from the rest of the camp, from any of the wagons or tents. The distant sound of the river is a calming constant. What is not so calming is the kid’s silence. The camp is asleep, save Charles still on watch, but Sean should be singing, even humming some song to himself. He is never silent, and the quiet is enough to get Arthur veering away from his own bed. He will never get to sleep knowing the kid is struggling so much to have gone quiet.

Arthur is not near drunk enough. Neither is Sean. Fuck that fortune and fuck needing to change. All of this was so much easier before those words. Before the reminder to care. It bites at his guts, drags him back to look at Sean, pathetic and alone on the ledge._ Change for them_.

Sean looks up at Arthur’s approach and goes right back to staring out over the canyon. Neither say a word as Arthur hunkers down to sit with his boots dangling over the edge. Sean looks so small, with his shoulders hunched in and his head staring down into his whiskey bottle. Arthur knows the kid will not find answers there, knows the answers need to be words, but he cannot bring himself to speak first. The words bubble up in his throat and sink right back down.

“I didn’t tell them nothing, Arthur. Swear I didn’t.” Sean starts, voice gruff and trembling all at once.

It never occurred to Arthur to even start worrying about that; for all that Sean can talk without end, Arthur knows the kid can keep mum no matter what those bounty hunters asked him. “I know you didn't, Sean. Trust you not to.”

Sean sighs, a heavy burst of air that makes him look ten years older. He glances to Arthur, looks back to the bottle of whiskey in his hands, traces the lip of the bottle with a shaking finger.

“They didn’t make you hurt for it, did they?” Arthur blood burns but he cannot do much about it even if they did. Those bounty hunters are either long dead or fled now. At least it gives Sean a chance to save some face, patch up with bravado.

“Nah, just roughed me up a little. Didn't feed me. Burned me. But it'll take more than that to break old Sean.” Sean smiles at him, shaky and afraid. Not the entire truth, but all he is willing to tell Arthur.

“Glad you’re okay, kid.” Arthur smiles, taps one of Sean's boots with his own over the cliff edge, hopes Sean understands it.

Sean's smile gains some color. He looks away again towards the trail of water leading to the lake.

Arthur hopes this helps. He knows how awful it feels to wonder about having a place to come back to, thinking the people you saw as family may not give a shit about you. It is a scary thing, living on the edge of the world as they do. Without Dutch bringing them all together none of them would have anyone.

“You’d...you’d have come back for me, right Arthur?” Sean does his best to hide it, the desperation and the sorrow of a man afraid of fading into nothing, but Arthur can hear it just as clear as the distant burble of the river, the sway of fir trees in the wind. Sean is a good kid, a good fit for the gang who will do well in their line of work, but he is flimsy. Not enough experience in the world to solidify who he is. Arthur thinks to the pictures of old gunslingers he has seen over the years, washed out from history in black and white blotches of newspaper ink, only photographs keeping them from vanishing. He hopes to never become one of them, and he sees now Sean hopes for the same.

It is tough to balance what he wants to say, what Sean needs to hear, but at least he does not have to look the kid in the eye. He can look out over the glimmering Dakota river, rippling in the moonlight, and pretend Sean is not there at all. Just the wind and the water and Arthur’s voice, immediate and without hesitation. “Of course, I would. I did.”

“Even if…” A cooling campfire log pops as sudden as a gunshot behind them and Sean flinches, clutching at the bottle in his hand ever tighter. He falls silent and the sounds of the night pad the air around them. Crickets chirp into the soft winds skirting through the grass. Moonlight shivers in foxglove stalks crowding the riverbanks. Sean whispers his next words, near drowning out in the stillness, so quiet Arthur nearly misses it, “Even if Dutch didn’t tell you to?”

These words are drudged up from the bottom of Arthur’s lungs. It is where his nerves and his emotions fester amongst themselves, slimy fish crawling through the muck of all the words he never lets out. It is where his hurts lie, where the tears and sorrows of words unsaid to Isaac soak in bloody water. It is a haunting place and it takes too long to pull these words up from it, caught on a hook and wriggling to be free. But Sean needs to hear this. Deserves it. _Change for them, care for them._

“I would. I will always come back for you, Sean. Don’t matter what no one says.”

He hears Sean chewing on those words, stripping the skin and picking through the bones. The kid will search for pity, for the familiar sting of a lie he has heard before. But Arthur does not have it in him to lie to Sean; he is the young brother, still learning and growing into himself, still hopeful.

Something in Arthur’s words must be enough. Sean lets out a shaking breath he has been holding a while, and a tentative knee knocks against Arthur’s over the cliff edge. He sees that Sean has fallen into that pit of silence that swallows up Arthur on occasion. He knows the feeling of tumbling down, rescues the kid from it as best he can.

“It’s alright, kid. I care about this gang more than anything. I’ve bled for it and would happily die for it. And you’re part of that, alright? So long as I’m breathing, I won’t leave you behind.” Arthur does not care if Sean really hears him or not. The kid could roll his eyes, scoff at this show of emotion, and Arthur would feel just the same. It is enough for him to say it and hold himself to it. To remember the words of that fortune and feel as if he is moving in the right direction. Before that day in the desert he never would have said a word of this. Maybe its good to let this out, to let people know.

But Sean is just sober enough to hear it, to turn and look Arthur in the eye, huff his next breath. “Thanks, Arthur…You won’t tell no one about this, right?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, kid.” Arthur plants a hand on Sean’s shoulder, firm and strong and alive, and heaves himself up to standing. When Sean looks up at him instead of dislodging the hand, eyes full of half-drunken adoration he will never voice, Arthur shoves the kid’s head to the side, knocks his hat askew. “Don’t fall over the edge, alright? I already saved your ass today.”

Sean starts singing as Arthur walks away. An Irish ballad Arthur can barely understand the words to, whining and crooning and too loud for the late hour. But it is perfect. The rest of the camp is dark, asleep, and just as Arthur reaches his cot, tugs off his boots,

“Will you shut up!” Hosea shouts from one of the tents.

Sean sings louder, his voice swooping like a swallow over the cliff edge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: I wrote some of these chapters out of canon order, but we're already here. So.


	5. Practice

“Arthur…I have a favor to ask of you.” Mary-Beth’s stomach churns with nerves. Reminds herself that no one in camp is paying them any mind. It is early in the morning and most of the gang is still asleep. The only one around is Uncle and the old man looks half-asleep across the campfire. Grumbling into his coffee.

Hosea _told _her to go to Arthur with this. She knows Hosea is not careless, not the whimsical old man he uses as a front. Before he left camp to sniff out a job in Valentine, _“Sorry dear, but this is the first chance I’ve gotten to try and offload these bonds. Why don’t you ask Arthur? If he can teach John, well he can teach anyone.”_ And after only a few years in the gang she knows she trusts Hosea to look out for her, to look out for them all. If he says she should trust Arthur with this then she will. And Arthur is a good man, or as good as any of them can be, anyway.

She reminds herself of just a few nights before when Arthur danced with her in the firelight, how he held her steady, a gentleman. Drunk, but sweet. He will not laugh, will not wave her off. She hopes.

Arthur looks up from his coffee cup, squints against the early morning sun. Clears his throat, voice still rough from sleep. “Good morning, Miss Gaskill. What can I do for you?”

His words sound so strange, so different from what Mary-Beth expects. Only by a few words, but they speak miles. It is just one more adjustment since their leaving the mountains; warmer air and borrowed time and Arthur being kind. He helps with chores, speaks in a softer tone, offers to carry and fetch things. His words were never cruel, but they are different now. It is a shift so slight she cannot put her finger on just what it is, but she knows it is there. It feels rather sudden, like a character in a romance novel having a change of heart after seeing a sign from God, but she knows it is best to not question kindness from anyone in this life.

“I was hoping, if you have the time that is, if you could teach me how to shoot? I’ve never properly learned how.” She hopes her voice does not quake like Karen always says it does when she gets nervous.

Arthur’s brows disappear up under the brim of his hat. “Shooting? Never heard you talk about wanting to learn before.”

Years of running away from pickpockets gone wrong, hiding in alleyways with terror in her throat if someone finds her. Fear welling up to burn her mouth when a man grabs Tilly and drags her to an alley in Valentine. Karen walking back to them with blood at her lip, bruises on her arm redder than blood, _“I’m fine…He only punched me. Arthur punched him a hell of a lot harder.”_

“Before everything got crazy you mean. I know I never had much interest in it but I…I feel like a young woman like me should learn is all.” Birds warble from the trees. She waits for him to laugh her request off, as if it, she, does not matter.

Arthur coughs, sets his coffee cup down in the dirt beside the fire. “Well alright then. Think I know a good place for you to practice. We’ll have to head out from camp a ways in case the law comes snooping around.” He stands up and is suddenly so tall beside her. “I’ll go fetch you a pistol from the stock wagon.”

“Oh, but I have one here.” Mary-Beth pulls a gun from a pocket sewn into the folds of her skirt. It was an addition Miss Grimshaw insisted on when Mary-Beth first joined the gang. Said no girl was going to walk around unarmed, not in her camp. One of her kinder moments to be sure.

The iron sits too heavy in her hands, as it always does. So cold and cumbersome. Arthur looks the gun over instead of reaching out, keeps his eyes on the metal and his hands at his sides. “No offense meant, Miss Gaskill, but that gun looks mighty old to be shooting.”

“It was my mama’s.” It is all the defense she can muster; it really is an old revolver. She does her best to keep the rust at bay, but it was her grandfather’s, an old Cattleman style she doubts the company makes anymore. It has gotten her out of more than a few bad scrapes over the years. She may not know how to shoot straight, but the people she robs do not need to know that. A bullet shot into the sky can always be persuasive.

Arthur is quiet a moment, looks down at his boots as if searching for words in the old leather. One of his hands grips at his belt. “And it is a beautiful pistol, but not one you want to be shooting in a fire fight. Go put that back with your things. I’ll fetch you something that’ll keep you safe. Meet me at the hitching posts.” He walks away, disappears behind the ammunition wagon before she can respond, before she can parse something from her dry throat. Firewood crackles and Uncle coughs something disgusting into the dirt.

Worn, dark wood handle, metal darker and scratched. “Wouldn’t call it beautiful.” Mary-Beth mutters as she walks to the women’s wagon, climbs into the back and unlatches her trunk. She wraps the revolver in a shawl of her mother’s, white linen with a splatter of blue dye, and sets it beside her books. Much of the trunk sits empty. Not for the first time, she misses the comfort of her mother’s things. Steel stitching needles, a string of pearls from New Orleans, a broach of embroidered roses. All long gone, lost in time, lost to Mary-Beth's most desperate moments.

For a moment, she wonders at the odds and ends hiding in the other’s trunks, what Hosea may have left behind over years of running, what bits and pieces of Mexico Javier holds on to, the memories Arthur hides in the photographs he tacks near his cot. People are so different, so lost in the currents of life, all holding on to something. Never knowing when a person, a place, will be gone, when a photograph or an old piece of cloth will be all they have left of another time.

It is such a cheesy thought she wrinkles her nose. A breeze picks up, bringing with it the familiar whiff of horses, and the reminder that she may be holding up Arthur at this rate. Latching her trunk, she stands and smooths her skirts before walking out to the hitching posts.

She spots Arthur walking amongst the herd, past the wagons and close to the treeline. He leads his horse to the posts and busies himself with tightening a saddle strap.

“Uh, here you go, Miss.” Kieran, the O’Driscoll they let off the post only two weeks ago, stands at her elbow. He leads a horse, a Morgan with a warm brown coat and dark mane, to the posts. The mare whickers and Kieran pats her with a smile, holds out the lead for Mary-Beth to take, “Mr. Morgan said you’d need a horse today. This here’s Violet. She’ll take care of you out there.”

Mary-Beth catches his eye, but Kieran looks down before she can see much past his nerves. “Oh, ah, thank you.

It is still so strange to have him in camp, walking around as free as the rest of them. Though she supposes he is still a hostage in some ways. He avoids looking her in the eye, a mirror to when he was still desperate for a cup of water and a kind word. Tied to a tree like an animal.

“Why thank you, O’Driscoll. You’re too kind.” Arthur walks around his own horse, watching the exchange with a hand at his belt. His voice carries a touch of hostility, an edge Mary-Beth has heard while out on jobs with him. Nothing close to a fight, but ready for one.

Kieran flinches and shuffles away from Mary-Beth, still holding out the lead but keeping his distance from her. “I ain’t an O’Driscoll.” It is a mumble under his breath, for no one but the air to hear, and he bows his head with it.

She is unsure what to say, and when she takes the lead, Kieran drops the rope and steps away, a blush at his ears and cheeks. “Thank you, Kieran.”

A smile, wobbling worse than a drunk man, flashes across Kieran’s face before it is gone. “You’re welcome, Miss. You two stay safe out there.” He nods to Arthur and walks back to the herd of horses. Shoulders in a hunch and steps fast.

Violet snuffles at Mary-Beth’s shoulder and she pets the mare’s cheek. She has never been one for horses, but this mare seems to be one of the gentler ones.

Arthur watches Kieran’s retreating back, looks to Mary-Beth with a strange look in his eye. “C’mon. Best we head out now."

* * *

They ride for a while into pretty country Mary-Beth has yet to see much of since they set up camp. Robins warble from the thickets of trees at the roadside and the world opens up when they pass the railroad tracks. Stalks of white yarrow flowers peak out of the plains grass. Blue skies and the lake shimmering in the distance. Arthur directs them towards the south and Mary-Beth’s horse canters along easily. She does not often ride horses and is glad to let the reins go slack in her hands.

Rabbits dash through the undergrowth at the sound of their horses’ hooves. “This sure is pretty country.”

“Suppose so. Warmer than Colter for sure.” Arthur keeps his eyes ahead of them, but his answering surprises her. He always seems like such a taciturn man, not one to chatter, or humor her. “That Kieran boy…he wasn’t bothering you, was he?” His voice comes out gruff and downturned into the collar of his shirt.

“Kieran? No, no, he doesn’t bother me. He’s a little odd, but I think he’s harmless.” Mary-Beth knows she tends to have a bleeding heart for those not worth bothering with, at least that is what Tilly always says, but she has a feeling she is right about Kieran. Nothing solid, just a feeling.

Arthur hums, loud enough for Mary-Beth to hear. He readjusts his hat, looks toward the east and the hillsides there. “Alright. Wanted to make sure I wasn’t intruding on anything.”

Mary-Beth feels her ears heat with embarrassment, unsure as to why, huffs under her breath into the sunshine. “Intruding? Now, Mr. Morgan, whatever do you mean by that?”

A smile peaks out from Arthur’s mouth, mischievous and sharp as the devil. “Meant nothing by it. Just keeping an eye out for you is all.”

“Well thank you, Arthur, but I’m not a little girl. I’ve met some bad men in my day and Kieran isn’t that. Hearing Bill tell that story of when ya’ll took him out to that cabin, Kieran saved your life. He can’t be too awful.” Her mind races thinking back to the handful of words Kieran has spoken to her. Always with nervous glances, mumbles, nothing threatening. Why would Arthur feel a need to protect her from a man like that?

Arthur grumbles but it is too quiet for her to make out. At the next fork in the road, he leads his mare to the left and Violet follows with a small pull to the reins.

“So, no one ever taught you to shoot, huh?” Arthur sounds unsure of his words, but Mary-Beth lets that be. The change in subject might be best for both of them, and it is a nice change to hear him speak so much.

Mary-Beth holds her words in for a minute, thinks over what she wants to say. No one ever really asks about her past, content to see her as the chatty girl she tries to be. And there is no harm in Arthur’s question, nothing to dig through, no motivation to find. He is just filling up space. “I mean, it was just me and my mama for as long as I could remember, and she didn’t know how to either. Kept that old gun around to scare off bad men. After she died, I didn’t have anybody. Not till ya’ll took me in, that is.” Down the hill, past a few trees, the lake glitters like the diamonds in a rich lady’s necklace. Mary-Beth keeps her eyes on it to avoid looking at Arthur.

The pause of a man trying to find the right words, and failing, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. It happened so long ago. I don’t talk about it much. Probably should instead of hiding it all in a journal.” She laughs with the words to avoid looking away from the lake, avoids the stinging at the corners of her eyes. Thinking about her mama is something she knows not to do. It brings up too many memories.

“I understand…My ma died when I was little. Pa died a long while before I met Dutch and Hosea. Don’t talk about that much either.” Mary-Beth does not know what to say, how to respond to a man like Arthur speaking so freely. Further up the hill now, the sun beams onto the exposed cliffs of the Heartlands, jagged rocks and miles of lonely sagebrush. The horses slow as they approach an old tree, hanging bottles along it’s branches. Arthur’s voice interrupts the sight of green, red, clear glass shining in the sun. “Being on your own like that is harder than anything, I think.”

Mary-Beth’s lungs suck in a breath that shakes. “It is. Makes me appreciate ya’ll so much.” She admits, following Arthur’s lead and slowing down off the trail.

“Ah, we ain’t much, but we’re family. Take care of each other as best we can.” Arthur dismounts his horse some distance from the deadwood and Mary-Beth follows his lead. He has yet to make eye contact with her, and she appreciates the sentiment.

Grass crackles, brittle and dry under their boots. The tree is an enormous and very dead oak. Scars and carvings cover the trunk, messages and hearts and initials from so many people now gone. Ropes hang at random from the boughs, dangling bottles to sing in the sunny wind.

A tree stump, wide as a table, the oak’s twin, sits a ways off, it’s surface crowded with beer bottles. Arthur walks some distance from the horses and Mary-Beth follows.

“Now, I’m assuming you’ve never shot anyone before?” Arthur asks over his shoulder, into the wind, and Mary-Beth shakes her head. “Shooting ain’t hard. So long as you know how to reload the chambers and pull the trigger, you’ll be fine. Hitting your target, though, is what you have to practice.” He looks to her for the first time in a while, blue eyes so honest, waits for her nod, and pulls a pistol from his satchel. The metal gleams. “This is a double-action revolver. It may not look like much compared to your old one, but it’s fast. Good for a couple shots to surprise someone.”

Mary-Beth reaches out and takes the pistol from him, revels in the weight of it, the promise of it. It is not as bulky as her mama’s revolver, and the grip fits well in her hands. “So, do I just…” She looks to the brown bottles spread across the stump, looks back to Arthur.

Broken glass crackles under Arthur’s boots as he shifts his weight, “Sight down the barrel, see what you can see.” He has his hands resting on his belt, looking out over the horizon. When she does as he asks, aims the gun with both hands and settles into a stance she hopes might be believable, “Mary-Beth, shooting someone ain’t like it is in those books of yours.” She steals herself against the doubts clawing up her throat, keeps her eyes trained down the barrel, focuses on a green bottle shimmering in the sunlight. Her feet shift in the sandy dirt. Arthur’s hand adjusts her arm, bends her elbow, taps her shoulder until she relaxes it. “If you shoot a man, you’re going to hear the blood. Might hear bone if you shoot the right spot. You gotta be prepared for that. This ain’t aiming with no intention to fire like you’re used to. If you’re pulling out this gun, you mean it.” He steps away. “Go on.”

She fires, finger sweaty on the trigger. Force hits her arm and the bullet goes wide. None of the bottles move and she expects Arthur to say something about it, but,

“Alright. Again. Enough practice and you’ll be a gunslinger in your own right. Get a feel for it and I’ll correct you as you go.” The glass shines, and she aims again.

* * *

A box and a half of ammunition later, so many bullets, and Mary-Beth feels tall. She feels strong and confident with it. Tucking the gun back into the pocket hidden in her skirts no longer feels like nothing but a weight pulling her down. Bottles lie in a mess of shards on the ground. Some of the ropes hanging from the tree now swing weightless in the wind.

Arthur leans against a nearby boulder, smoking a cigarette he drops to the ground and stamps under his boot, “You did well. Gotta keep practicing, but that comes with time.”

Mary-Beth smiles to him, feels just a touch better about how the sun warms her skin. She knows Dutch would never tell her to ride out with the boys as an extra gun, and she doubts being in the line of fire during a bank robbery is in her future, but it isn’t quite so terrifying now.

“Thank you, Arthur. I-,” She stops, hears hoofbeats coming up the road. Not a soul has passed them since they got here, no one for miles this morning. But now a man rides up the road, alone on an American Paint, leather saddle and linen saddlebags, a finely tailored coat, shoes shining with too much polish. Mary-Beth says, “We could rob him.”

“We could.” Arthur agrees, not rising to the bait of Mary-Beth’s giddy voice. When she looks back to him, Arthur’s blue eyes stare into her, watching, waiting, giving her the lead. The weight of her gun is a promise, not a fear, and she steps out into the road because she wants to feel weightless for a while longer.

“Stop! Please! Help!” She stresses her voice, makes it reedy and fragile. The horse slows at her sudden shout and the man draws back on the reins. Hooves kick up dust and Mary-Beth bites her tongue.

“There a problem, miss?” The man’s voice comes out high with nerves. His moustache droops in a heavy frown. Sunlight beats down and Mary-Beth feels sweat clinging to her back.

“Sir, thank goodness you stopped. This man has been following me for miles and threatened to hurt me if I didn’t stop. Please help me. I’m just trying to get home to Valentine.” She edges toward the horse, points at Arthur and hopes the man can think on his feet. He is far from the greatest actor in the gang, and she has witnessed him foul up a handful of jobs over the years, but he manages to set his face in a grim scowl, curl his spine so his shoulders hunch with menace as he stalks toward her.

“Now you shut your little mouth, you-,” Mary-Beth knows to trust Arthur, but even in that she feels a twinge of fear at seeing a man as large as him stride at her. His voice changes so much, so angry, she nearly forgets.

But the gentleman pulls his horse’s reins and angles the animal between Arthur and Mary-Beth, using a surprising level of finesse to block Arthur’s path. “Step away from her sir. Just by looking at you I can see you would be nothing but trouble for this young lady.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you so much, sir.” Mary-Beth moves closer to the horse, to the saddle.

Arthur growls, “I knew I should have just grabbed you when I had the chance.” It keeps focus on him, away from Mary-Beth’s hands as she reaches for the saddle and the gun tucked away in her pocket.

She reaches up, draws the revolver, _mean it_, and presses the muzzle to the man’s waistcoat. “You know, I am sorry about this. Thank you for offering to help.” Mary-Beth smiles as the man freezes. Revels in the nervous shivers tensing up his spine. “Hands up. Arthur, search the bags.” Mary-Beth calls, unable to see Arthur between the horse and the man. She hopes her tone is like Karen’s, always so authoritative on jobs.

“That’s Callahan to you little missy. What the hell are you trying to pull.” Arthur’s words, still full of frustration and anger, make Mary-Beth strain under the act. But his spurs jingle as he walks to the other side of the horse.

“I’m warning you two. You’re making a big mistake.” The man says, voice too stringy to be anything but fearful. He raises his arms, but they shake worse than autumn leaves. The Paint tosses its head, nervous in the shadow of it’s owner’s fear. The horse burs a warning at the sudden crowding, but Arthur hums under his breath, grazes a hand over the animals white and brown flank, “You’re alright, boy. Ain’t no need for none of that.”

Mary-Beth holds her breath but the horse calms, easy and steady under Arthur’s hand. He starts patting the man’s pockets, grabs at a silver chain clipped there. Something heavy falls to the dirt, “Coward didn’t even reach for his pistol. Some gentleman.” Arthur huffs, starts digging through one of the saddlebags.

“Please don’t shoot. I have a family. Please.” Mary-Beth jabs the pistol into the man’s side, makes him squeal like a panicking rat.

Arthur answers, “Don’t worry mister. Southern Belle like her couldn’t hurt a fly.” He stuffs a few things into his satchel and moves around to the other saddlebag.

She chances a glance to Arthur and the look on his face, a calm born from experience, does nothing to soothe her nerves. “Hush Arthur. Now hurry up.”

When Arthur closes the bag and steps away, Mary-Beth steps with him, waves her gun at the man still cowering against the saddle.

“Go on now. Get.” Mary-Beth keeps her gun trained on him, watches the flash of fear in his eyes as he scrambles for the reins and kicks at his horse’s flanks. The Paint jolts forward, and they race down the road in a flash of dust.

Arthur watches them a moment, then whistles for their own horses. “Best we take the long way back to camp, then.”

Mary-Beth’s fingers fumble in tucking the gun back into her skirts, but when she chances a look up, Arthur’s face is bright with a genuine smile.

“Good job, there. Though, watch the name next time. Don’t need no more people recognizing me.” Arthur shuffles over to his horse, grabs the pistol out of the dusty road. Mary-Beth follows and feels pride, light as air, settle over her.

* * *

They ride down the hill for a while, fast but not too much, cutting over game trails and through stands of raspberry clumps along the hillside. Arthur seems to know where he is going, so Mary-Beth lets him lead. It is not until the sight of Flat Iron Lake is dark and blue and close that Mary-Beth’s hands begin shaking, hollow and clammy against the leather of Violet’s reins. Her stomach churns and the cooler air feels hard to breathe.

Arthur’s horse slows from a canter to lope alongside Violet. “You did well today, Mary-Beth. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you been robbing longer than I have.” His words sound strong and real and Mary-Beth holds on to them.

“Since I was thirteen. Sorry I jumped that whole robbing on you.” When she looks over to him, Arthur is watching her with intent, blue eyes. Too knowing, too much. She turns away, busies herself with running her fingers through her hair.

Arthur huffs and says, “Ah, that’s alright. Never been one to say no to a quick robbing. Besides, we made it out alright. Nice bit of cash for our trouble. Easy.”

The calls of gulls near the water come to them with a cool breeze. Mary-Beth’s racing heartbeat slows a touch. “Ain’t that funny? Authors always get it so wrong saying it’s easy. But it isn’t like it’s described in books at all.”

“How do you mean?”

She wrestles with it, smells lake muck and green tinged water on the air. “It’s never as glamorous as the writers make it out to be. They think robbing is some exciting thing. Chasing trains and shootouts in banks. But it isn’t like that at all. Sometimes it’s just…what it is.” The words come with the memory of aiming her new gun at the man, holding all of that power for just a few moments. Blood rushes in her ears, loud and daunting.

“Suppose so. Hey, how’d you know he’d be easy to rob? Looked like any other feller riding down the road to me.” Arthur looks to her with eyes too steady, focusing on how she reacts. Distracting.

Mary-Beth bites her lip and thinks back, lets the calm of words wash through her lungs like medicine. “His shoes were well polished, mustache oiled, was wearing a fine coat too. His saddlebags were made of white linen, nothing dark made to hide stains.”

“You saw all of that in the five seconds it took you to start shouting for him to stop?” Arthur sounds genuinely confused, and when Mary-Beth glances over, the look on his face makes her laugh.

“What can I say, Arthur? Some of us have to do more than act like an angry bear.” She hides a titter behind her hand, knows Arthur will not take offense to her words.

He looks thoughtful a moment, looks ahead of them again. “You ever done that before?”

“Robbed someone? Of course. Never quite like that though. I’ve never been the one to say ‘when’.” Her mind tumbles with old memories, and something in the rhythm of horse hooves on packed soil takes her mind away. Wind rustling through willow tresses, her hands still on Violet’s saddle.

“Well you’re better than some of the boys are at it, I can tell you that. Quick, clean, didn’t attract bad attention to yourself. Gonna have to bring you along robbing more often.” Arthur mumbles the last part, nearly to himself.

“Surprised you’d want to take lil’ old me after this stunt. Should’ve planned a bit better. Shouldn’t have-,” Her words are small but so loud to her.

Arthur’s cough interrupts her. He rubs a hand at the back of his neck. “Don’t sell yourself short, Mary-Beth. You did good. Hell, you know this life well enough, maybe you ought to write a book about all this, this life of ours. Get it right for once.”

Mary-Beth blinks, feels her mind blank and her cheeks flush because of course her writing would never be enough for something like that. “Oh, I don’t know.”

“Nah, I bet you could write circles around all those dusty scholar types. You live it, ain’t no one gonna know it better.” Arthur sounds so sure, so steady. A certainty she hears so often in Hosea’s promises, Dutch’s speeches.

Silence sits between them awhile, and Arthur directs the horses back up the hill to the plains. Mary-Beth goes to bite her lip, reminds herself not to; her nerves are gone now, talked out. “Thank you, Arthur.”

“Ah, you’re welcome, I suppose. Just stood there. You did all the work.” He looks away too quick, avoiding, and she does not give chase.

The sun climbs into the sky, reaching up and up to warm the air. Her heart calms and soon she forgets why everything seemed so much. Their horses trot along, passing railroad tracks and the winding shores of the lake. Arthur lets her have silence, only breaking it to say a “Howdy” to any passing riders.

With each mile, Mary-Beth thinks to the gun in her pocket, showering broken glass into plains grass. The sway of those bottles and tracking them. It feels alright, makes her sit up and look around her with new eyes. Makes her want to rush back to camp and write. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: Hopefully its not glaringly obvious, but I know nothing about guns or how they work.


	6. Homestead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Blood.

Arthur tells himself he is not waiting for something to happen. For lawmen to rush the camp and slaughter his family. For any one of them, Javier, Hosea, Abigail, Susan, to raise a revolver and shoot him in the back. _Betrayed by those you trust most. _Tells himself he is not watching over his shoulder every time he hears Dutch’s voice from across camp. _The devil_. The voice he found so comforting, so strong and uplifting, now only makes him nervous. He hates the words, the fortune, the churning in his stomach. He tells himself he is not listening to everyone’s words with a new perspective. Wanting to help, to change, but still not knowing how.

He catches himself watching birds flutter through branches, notices how the wind weaves through the trees during a rainstorm, as if every day might be his last. Time feels funny now, moving so fast as if he is drunk, so slow as if every move he makes will be the pull of a trigger.

Tells himself he is not watching every move Charles makes whenever he is in camp. The curve of his spine while chopping firewood, nimble fingers crafting arrows, the calm nod he gives Arthur in passing. Not a smile, but close.

It has been a few days since that night of sitting in the woods, whiskey on his breath and tree roots digging into his back. Drunker than he should have been and unsure if what he felt for Charles was really so simple. Charles never pushed him away and Arthur wonders if,

Arthur takes a long drink of coffee and scalds his tongue. He needs to drown the thought now before it grows into even more of a fool’s errand. The coffee makes him cough and Susan looks over with concern from across the campfire. He hopes his ears are not as red as they feel.

Morning in Horseshoe Overlook tends to dawn quiet with few of the gang getting up early enough to mill about and socialize. Few of them can handle this bright of an hour. The chickens cluck and the fire crackles under an empty blue sky. Pearson stumbles around the chuckwagon. His muffled clanging and cursing mixes with the bird song from the nearby trees.

Susan sighs across the fire and stands. “I swear, that man is going to wake the whole camp with that ruckus.” She clutches her mug of tea and a frown is already on her face and Arthur does not pity Pearson one bit when she sets off to scold the man.

“Morning, Arthur. You busy?” Javier walks up, looking as put together as he ever does but with sleep still dragging down his eyelids. He pours himself a tin mug of coffee and stands close to the flames. His poncho looks too bright in the early sun.

“Figured I’d take a long nap, see how it feels to live like Uncle. Why?”

“I got wind of a job up near Mount Hagen. Wanted to know if you might join me.”

“Gotta give me more than that. What’s the job?”

“A solid one.”

“I don’t know, Javier. You scoped the place out yet?”

“Thought we could figure it out as we go. It’ll be easy.”

“Yeah well, please remind me what happened the last time you were this confident about an ‘easy’ job?” Javier huffs and Arthur hears the grit and frustration in it. He tries a different tact, “I ain’t saying it’ll be a bad job, Javier. All I’m saying is you tend to run in guns blazing more than you might care to admit. Now, I’ll ride with you, I’ve got your back and you know it, but you gotta tell me what I’m getting into and what your plan is.” He takes a sip of his coffee, tolerably hot now, as Javier deflates. His shoulders sink into his chest and the spark in his smile sputters out.

“Been doing this long enough to know a good job when I hear one.” Javier does not stalk away like John or Bill might. The pause is a short one full of smoldering fire and his boot scuffing in the dust. He sits down on the log beside Arthur. “Heard about a homestead out north of Valentine. Supposed to be this old family that never comes around town for anything. Man said they rob passing travelers, homesteads. Sort of a bogeyman around there. That’s gotta be something.”

Arthur sips at his coffee, looks away from Javier to the nearby cliffs. A sparrow flies up from the canyon and dives back in with a swoop that make his eyes roll. “Then tell me why nobody else ain’t ever had the same idea?”

“Arthur, we’ll be fine.”

“You say that now.” Arthur mumbles into his coffee, weary with the feeling of the fortune drawing near. Close to his throat like a silver knife.

The hesitation does not bother Javier any; he frowns and looks around the camp as if he will find the answer sitting on Pearson’s butcher table. Abigail lugs a bucket of water over to the stewpot, Jack runs past with a stick in hand playing some imaginary game, Charles walks past them with a freshly polished rifle in each hand.

“Eh, what if Charles rides along with us? You like him better than you like me, that’s for sure.” Javier jumps at the chance, chuckles, and Arthur wills his eyes to roll. Javier doesn’t know the half of it, but he does not need to know that.

Charles stops and looks them over, eyes pinning Arthur for a moment too long to be casual. Arthur knows that at this hour, even with Charles being an early riser, his voice will still be deep and graveled with sleep. He wants to hear it and coughs to hide the blushing at his ears.

Charles is glancing between the two, sharp eyes most likely missing nothing. “Where to?”

Javier slings an arm over Arthur’s shoulders, just enough weight to be friendly and warm in the morning chill. “Well, Mr. Smith, if you’d like to join us, we were just going to head out to Widow’s Rock to see about a job. Robbing a homestead of inbred hillbillies.”

“I never agreed to going anywhere with you. You don’t even have a plan.” Arthur chugs down the last of his coffee, knows that Javier has already talked him in to tagging along. Javier can be this way, all smiles and amiable company that draws you in. Like the pull of the desert, dry and warm and only realizing the danger when it is too late.

Charles chuckles, low in his throat and chest and Arthur closes his eyes and turns his head away. He wants to put his hands to Charles’ chest and feel that laugh. Heat sparks in his guts and he knows it is so stupid.

“I ain’t going anywhere with you and all this ‘it’ll be easy’ talk. It’s a bunch of bull if you ask me.” Arthur sets his cup by the fire and looks up at Charles’ looming figure. He glances to Javier, quick and tense, and Arthur wonders what he is thinking.

Javier leans into Arthur’s shoulder, voice holding none of the venom it could. “You’re right, Arthur. We’ll need backup anyway. Nothing ever goes right when it’s you and me on a job, eh? You up for it, Charles?”

Charles relaxes, the tension drawn out of his shoulders. Maybe he expects Javier to take more offense to Arthur’s words and send a punch flying. It would certainly be far from the first disagreement in camp solved that way. But Arthur knows how to get under Javier’s skin, how to bring out the man’s knives and even sharper words, and he has no inclinations to get that close to a hissing rattlesnake at this early of an hour. Or ever. He leaves that to Bill.

Hosea walks past them, rolled parchment in his hands that must be another map of the territory. “And where are you gentlemen heading off to?”

Something in Arthur’s chest eases at the sound of Hosea’s voice. His childhood rearing its ugly head, he knows, reminding him of Hosea’s trust. With that fortune still making its rounds in his head, Arthur has not been able to be around Dutch for very long. Passing words and muttered excuses. Too wary of the man even if it is for a stupid reason, a reason he knows Dutch would chastise him for. But Hosea is not a part of that. Of course not. It is a feeling of such certainty, knowing Hosea cares now and will still care for them with everything he can give no matter what becomes of this mess.

_Betrayed by those you trust most._

He shakes away the thought, refuses to consider Hosea like that. “Javier says he found a place to rob up near Mount Hagen.” Arthur replies, starting to push at Javier’s arm to get him away. The arm drops and Javier sits there with the warm, friendly smile Arthur has seen rob stagecoaches. Unarmed and deadly.

Hosea frowns, his lips pursing like when a poker hand starts to turn sour. “Nothing ever goes right when you and Javier are by yourselves.” He says it with too much experience in his tone. Arthur knows it is because of how dangerous things have been lately; between the O’Driscolls, the law, and the gang’s penchant for finding trouble, Hosea spends most of his time worrying nowadays.

“Not my fault I always find something interesting when Arthur just wants to keep his head down. We were just asking Charles if he wanted to tag along. Three of us got Sean back alright.” Javier says. Arthur wants to smack him upside the head, but the coffee has yet to kick in enough. The campfire is warming his chest and feet and it almost feels as if the tail end of winter is not still hanging around in the air.

“You call that wagon of explosives in Colorado something ‘interesting’?” Arthur mutters.

“Well that was-,”

“And the pack of bounty hunters that chased us across Montana? That was really interesting.” Hosea says, grin growing, and even Charles has a hint of a smile.

“I don’t need this kind of grief right before a job. I’ll go by myself if you bastards are going to be like this.” Javier scowls, exasperation rather than frustration.

Hosea laughs. “Charles, son, you’re sensible, have a good head on your shoulders. If you could ride out there with them, I’d feel much better about the whole thing. For my old heart.” Hosea taps at his chest with the rolled paper and smiles at Charles.

Arthur blinks. Lost in the chase from Blackwater, the freeze of the mountains, the years of running with a gang always on the move, Arthur forgets Hosea’s age. The lines at the corners of his eyes, the deep furrow around his mouth, years of laughter and worry and strength. Forgets that someday he will not be there. Outlaws like them, wanted by the law and all manner of other folks, do not die quietly. In the time between breaths, Arthur realizes, knows with a sudden pain, that Hosea will die in a mess of blood and sorrow. Not the quiet affair he deserves, drifting off to the other side in his sleep with family around him. No, it will be a stray bullet, an illness seeping into his lungs, the taunt line of a hangman’s noose.

_There is still time to stop their ends._

Arthur swallows the bile down and rights himself with a shake of his head, clears the words from his ears.

“Well how can I say no then?” Charles shrugs his shoulders, eyes drifting to Arthur’s. So much in that dark gaze he does not understand. Wishes he could. Nerves tickle at Arthur’s stomach and his muscles tense. He looks away from warm brown eyes because that is all he can do. Heaving himself up to standing, he sighs “You could, right now. In fact, now would be the best time to tell him no.”<strike></strike>

Javier stands and tucks his thumbs in the belt loops of his pants. He has a grin on his face bright enough to blind someone. “Oh, shut it, Arthur. I’ll meet you two at the hitching posts.” Javier stalks off toward the herd of horses. He can be nastier than a rabid coyote when he gets mad, but Arthur knows this is just playful yapping and snaps of gentle teeth.

Hosea nods to them. Worry easing away from the corners of his eyes. “Be safe out there. Keep an eye on them for me, Charles.” And he walks to Strauss’ tent.

Arthur struggles to say something, wonders if he is meant to break the quiet between him and Charles. Pine sap crackling in the campfire, “Hope this goes better than the last few times you and I have ridden out.” Charles mutters, loud enough for Arthur to hear, and when he looks up there is a joking smile peeking out the corner of Charles’ mouth. Not really a smile, not as the others would know it, but Arthur knows.

Charles might have leant forward that day in the dry heat of sagebrush and bloodied bison skin, but Arthur will never know. He does not need to know. The darkness and the whiskey out in those woods would have protected them from any prying eyes, saved him from any stupid drunken leap he decided to take. He will never get to know, and he needs to stomp down all these wants if he is going to move forward. Change is something he needs to focus on rather than this part of him, a part that he has never been able to change. Always tried to change it, even before the fortune, but it never stuck.

“What’re you talking about? Our last ride out went perfect. Not a thing I would change.” He steps around the fire towards the horses, still watching Charles’ face smile in the crisp morning sun.

This time the smile reaches Charles’ cheeks, and he shakes his head with it. “Me neither.”

* * *

“So, Charles. What do you think of our ragtag gang so far? Been a few months.” Javier asks over his shoulder. They are hardly a mile down the road and Arthur rolls his eyes. He imagines he and Charles could ride an entire day together without saying a word.

“It’s certainly something.” Charles’ deep voice sounds from the back of the line, and Arthur feels sharp eyes trained on the back of his neck. He focuses on the river fast approaching. Looks to Javier just ahead of him, the hat Arthur has always wanted to shoot off Javier’s head.

“Well, you haven’t run for the hills yet. Can’t be all bad.” Javier says it with laughter.

“Yeah, not all bad.” Charles’ voice is quieter now, more to himself and to Arthur than for Javier. Arthur is in the middle of the trio, but it is as if Javier is not there, as if Arthur and Charles are the only ones in the world. He forgets how recent Charles’ addition to the gang is. It feels as though he’s been with them for so much longer, comfortable and reliable. A man Arthur does not question to watch his back. Or maybe that is just Charles. Or just Arthur.

Javier quiets after that, not familiar enough with Charles to try and broach the silence again, not knowing if it is welcome. It is not until they are far into Ambarino and riding through evergreen coated hills that Javier speaks up again. Rabbits scatter from the path of the horses and a woodpecker hammers into an old cedar nearby. “Alright, it’s just over this ridge. Let’s dismount and go in on foot.”

New growth pine trees cover the hillside. The trees stop just short of their belts, the darkness of fire burnt soil peeking through old leaf litter. Leftovers from a forest fire that put itself out last season. Arthur crouches beside Javier, Charles joins them, and they look out over the compound. “Thought you said this was just a cabin out in the woods.” Arthur hisses, glaring at the side of Javier’s head. The man refuses to look at him, staring resolutely forward.

Arthur huffs and digs the binoculars out of his satchel. The house is small compared to the barn and the sheds housing too many horses. Wood fencing encloses the grassy yard and hiding places look few and far between.

“Honestly, Arthur, I wasn’t sure what we were walking into. That’s why I brought you and Charles. It’s us three against some highwaymen.” Javier claps a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. Charles hums next to him, too close, too warm, and Arthur grits his teeth, hopes his hat hides the flames blooming at his ears.

“Let’s just get this over with. Now where would they hide their money?”

“The barn. House is too obvious. Sheds aren’t secure enough.” Charles says, voice a confident hush.

Arthur nods along. “Alright. Question is how we get to it. I don’t fancy trying to sneak around out in the open like this; looks like there's a couple of them in the yard already. No way of telling how many more are in the house.”

Javier looks down to the ground, picks up a piece of charred wood left from the bushfire. Rubs it between his fingers until a black stain remains. “How about we create a distraction at the front of the property, then sneak around to the barn.” Javier tucks a bandana up over the lower half of his face and creeps forward. Arthur can only hiss after him. “God dammit, Escuella!”

* * *

Javier’s idea of a distraction is lighting a shed on fire. Arthur cannot argue with the plan; it works too well. Horses squeal and voices yell and no one pays them any attention as they creep around to the barn and sneak in through the empty windows.

Hay dust and smoke cover them. Flames crackle in the yard, but the panicked shouts of the family trying to put out the fire do not let up. It all feels too easy and Arthur fights down the panic clinging to the inside of his throat. It takes all three of them to find a trapdoor in the mess of hay on the floor. When they pull it aside and Javier opens the trunk hidden under the floor, he sighs in relief at the sight of neat stacks of cash, a pouch clinking with jewelry and small bits of gold.

Charles excuses himself to watch out the windows, the shrieks of panicking horses worsening as time ticks by. They need to hurry if they want to avoid a full shootout. Something in Arthur itches for the fight, for the rush of it, but he does not want to risk Javier and Charles, knows their lives are far more important.

“Not a bad take, eh Arthur?” Javier whispers, handing stacks up to him.

“Sure, Javier. Now let’s hurry up before that fire spreads too far.” He stashes the stacks of cash in his satchel to count later. The paper feels soft against his fingers, comforting in a way only money can be.

“Always so worried about things. Live a little, Arthur.”

Arthur huffs under his bandana, steps away from the trapdoor. “You seem to do plenty of living for the both of us, Javier.” He shuffles to kneel beside Charles near one of the windows. “They still busy?”

“Yeah. Should be safe for us to sneak out.” Charles’ voice rumbles from under his own mask.

Javier settles the trapdoor back in place and joins them, hands close to the gun at his hip. “We aren’t fighting our way out?”

“No need. The fire is keeping them…” Charles trails off. Confidence drains from his eyes and he ducks down from the window. Horses squeal, a few pistol shots, and the telltale sound of men yelling and jeering.

“O’Driscolls.”

“Shit. How many?” Arthur’s spine itches and he knows they need to be away, fast. The flames are still spreading and if the O’Driscolls find them in the barn, he has no doubt they will lock the doors and wait until only ashes remain.

“Eight. Maybe more.” Fighting starts outside, the family and O’Driscolls hollering at each other.

Gunshots fire and Arthur whispers a curse under his mask. “Wait for an opening. We'll slip out the side and sneak back to the horses. No need for us to get involved.” Charles nods, easy, and hunkers against the wall to wait.

Javier looks surprised but nods as well, “Whatever you say, boss.”

The shootout lasts a handful of seconds, time that drags just the same as it hurries. His heart races but his hands are steady. Eyes blurring at the edges, too clear at the center. A tap at his shoulder and the intensity breaks, interrupts with the worry creasing Charles’ brow. Arthur remembers to breathe, tries to draw from Charles' seeming endless calm. Javier is nervous beside him, body still but fingers fidgeting with the hammer of his revolver.

When the shooting stops, there is no silence after like he hopes. There is laughter, the yelling keeps up, and though it is a garble of accents it is nothing close to the mess of the family’s dialect. Arthur’s stomach sinks as the voices grow closer, calls of searching the barn, and he shares a solemn nod with Charles and Javier. Raises a hand to count down.

Three. Two. One.

He rises into the window and fires, catching two of the men with quick pistol shots to the chest. A third falls to Javier's shot and a fourth to Charles'. The yard looks clear, save the crowd of panicking horses, the shed now engulfed in flames, and Arthur bolts forward to cover Charles and Javier’s escape from the barn. Fire licks through the grass and is already so close to the barn, dry wood and hay that will light up faster than a bundle of fireworks in a hot bonfire.

_In a wash of ash._

Two O’Driscolls rush into the doorway. He shoots at them in a blind attempt to provide cover. Only one of the shots lands and he ducks against the side of the house as the man falls down with a scream. Charles’ shotgun takes out the last man, and Arthur has a moment of breathing through the gun smoke, standing and walking around the corner to the house door. An open window, barrel sticking out,

“Arthur! Watch out!” A hand at the back of his shirt, pulling and throwing him into the dirt. A muzzle flash against the blue sky. The wind knocks out of his lungs as if it has somewhere more important to be. Javier’s revolver, gleaming silver in the sunlight, flashes twice above him. A shatter of glass. His hands scramble for purchase in the dirt and when he manages to right himself, the clearing is quiet, a mess of O’Driscoll bodies bleeding into the mud.

“You alright, Arthur?” Javier’s voice. Worry and adrenaline. Pistol still raised and eyes searching with a frantic twitch.

_In a wash of ash and blood and bone._

“Thanks, Javier. I’m fine.” Arthur sits in the dirt, too shaken just yet to stand. The open window above him sits shot out, a spray of blood on the wall inside.

Charles stalks towards them, looking as worried as Arthur has ever seen him, brow down, mouth a grim line of anger, footsteps hurried and without their usual purpose. He meets Arthur’s eye, halts with too much momentum, looks him over with frantic eyes, nods, and rushes over to the burning shed. He swings his hatchet at the horse leads still tied to the posts, freeing them and shooing them away from the path of the flames.

Arthur stands on shaking legs, looks to the shattered glass, the O’Driscoll lying dead inside the house, shotgun still in his hands. It was a close thing, a fatal thing if not for Javier, and Arthur feels a burn in his stomach at having thought Javier might be that part of the fortune. _Betrayed_. It must be someone else, someone other than Dutch. Anyone else.

Javier’s hand smacks against Arthur’s shoulder, pushes him forward, away from the body and the death it promised, toward the compound gate where horses are racing away with shredded reins and halters. He leans on Javier for a few steps before regaining his sense of balance. Pats Javier’s back to thank him without saying as much.

Charles joins them as they make their way back into the forest, smoke still thick in the air, crawling down Arthur’s throat. The crackle of flames begins to fade until Arthur feels just a touch safer.

The horses still stand where they left them, unharmed and unphased by the smoke rising into the air. As he nears Rosie, Arthur feels his ribs release tension and he bumps shoulders with a smiling Javier.

“Thank you, Javier.”

“Eh, suppose you were right in saying we always manage to find trouble, huh Arthur?” Javier says to him, voice sheepish with his head tilted toward the ground. He whistles for his horse’s attention.

“But you had my back, Javier. That’s what counts in all this. Gonna count a lot more the longer we stick around here.” Arthur says to him, hoping in the next moment Javier hears what he means but does not notice how brooding it sounds. It can be Arthur’s job to worry, to fear they will not make it out. Whatever foreboding the fortune teller instilled in Arthur does not need to spread to anyone else in the gang. Arthur can worry all on his own.

But Javier turns back, and the look in his eyes is too sharp. “What is going on with you, Arthur? Since we got to Horseshoe you’ve been…different.” Javier frowns. “Never seen you brood like this.”

Arthur sighs, looks to his boots and hopes. “Just…worried is all. We keep moving East and…I worry it ain’t going to end well.”

“Dutch will get us through. He always does.” Arthur hears the blind faith in Javier’s voice, the whip quick reply of a man brought back from starvation by Dutch’s speeches.

The words he spits out next make his spine crawl because he knows he does not wholly believe them anymore, wishes he did, _he will take everything from you_, “It ain’t Dutch I’m worried about. We been in some bad spots over the years but not…not like this. But I’m just worrying. Ain’t no need to bother yourself with it.”

Javier seems to consider something, a heavy weight in his eyes. Boaz stands at his side, and Javier strokes the horse’s mane. “You’re not alone in this, alright Arthur? Let me know if there’s any way I can help.” He turns to Charles, standing silent and watchful beside them. “Thanks for tagging along, Charles. Wasn’t quite what I’d hoped, but…” Javier climbs into Boaz’s saddle and pats the horse’s shoulder.

“Whatever keeps Hosea happy, right?” Charles’ voice sounds unaffected by the exchange, but he watches Javier with calm eyes.

“That’s for sure. Alright, I’ll see you gentlemen back at camp. Try not to look so sour, Arthur.” Javier tips his hat and Arthur waves him off.

“Yeah, yeah, good job picking this place out. And thanks for that shot, Javier. Now get out of here.” He says the praise aloud, always kept it silent before, _Change. For them._

Javier looks surprised but his smile turns bright at the compliment, and it reminds Arthur of when the man first joined the gang years ago. Dirty, ruffled, ribs sticking out against his skin. Outside Tumbleweed, trailing feathers and blood from a chicken coop he broke into. Dutch brought him back to camp with the promise of a ‘good feeling’. That good feeling started with muttered Spanish and Bill losing fistfights. But it only took Hosea bringing Javier along on a few fishing trips for Arthur’s mind to settle on him being one of them. It has since spiraled into the warmth of a red poncho and guitar chords around the campfire, the feeling of a loyal brother. Not _the devil_, not something to fear.

After Javier rides off, Arthur turns back to see Charles kneeling in the mud just off the trail. Arthur feels his mouth go dry, curved spine and broad shoulders, and clears his throat to cover it. “You ready to get out of here, Charles?” He is not sure why the man has not ridden off already.

“There’s tracks here. Deer, maybe an hour or two ago. Headed for the river.” The warmth of sunlight floods Charles’ dark hair. Something in Arthur’s ribs twinges at knowing he will never get the chance to feel how soft it is.

Charles looks to him. “Was thinking of hunting before heading back,” Dark eyes dart away at Arthur’s silence. “If you’d like to join me.” That grim slant is back at Charles’ mouth, concern or worry maybe. Arthur is not the best at picking up on things like that.

The air in Arthur’s lungs is gone in the next moment and he tries to get it back. “Well, ah, not sure how much help I’ll be. Not so good at being all quiet like you.” He worries his words come too fast, sets a hand on his belt so it does not have the chance to fidget in the air. “But if you don’t mind me tagging along…”

“Never mind you, Arthur. We’ll follow them to the river, see where they take us.”

Arthur feels his mind stumble. He ducks his head and mounts Rosie’s saddle without looking up. When he does chance a glance, Charles is smiling, calm and steady, the one from that night in the woods. He leads them along the game trail and down the sheer banks of the Dakota river. Sunlight shines on Charles’ hair, warms the leather of Rosie’s saddle, and as they hunt, Arthur feels his chest settle with the easy calm that comes with riding alongside Charles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: I named Rosie by searching 'horse name female' and picked the first name that came up. True story.


	7. Nights

Cold sweat, dry throat, cloying darkness and the dread of knowing nothing will ever be enough. Blood fills his lungs. Thick and so heavy it weighs him down. Sinks into his ribs and holds them closed. Gunsmoke curls into his nose and chokes him, settles on his tongue to muffle a scream. Air presses in on him and the bite of a bullet sits somewhere in his chest. _“Arthur, have you completely lost faith in me?” _Tears well in his eyes and sting. A woman crying and a child’s scream, so familiar yet not. His skull echoes with the sound of the blind man’s voice, _You’re going to die_.

Arthur surges forward as he wakes, clamps a hand over his mouth to try to stifle the coughing. Something in him wants to scream so badly. Knows if he does it will wake the entire camp. His lungs heave and threaten to burst. Lingering soot and ash. Air escapes in huffs between his teeth, broken off sobs he knows he cannot, should not, let free.

Crickets chitter in the air as he struggles to come back into the world, feeling confused and so scared. The camp sleeps calm around him and there is hardly any noise to interrupt the gentle Heartland winds. Something in that woman’s scream feels familiar, but the murky film of a quickly forgotten dream lingers and he cannot recall. The fragments of the nightmare leave so quick, so easy, yet his hands tremble.

Anger rumbles in his guts and his hands clench into shaking fists. Even his dreams are not safe from that damn fortune. Mere words are taking over his life and he doesn’t know how to stop them. His muscles throb when he moves to stand up from his cot. Pain pulses at his jaw. His body aches with long held tension and he feels glad at not remembering much of the dreams.

Embers glow faintly from the campfires in the mid-spring night air. Stars sit in the darkness overhead, silent and leering. Uncle snores somewhere far off, a sound close enough to be comforting in its familiarity.

Arthur gets up, puts on his boots and makes his peace with not getting back to sleep. He will relieve the night watch, let someone get some shuteye. He rubs at his eyes as he wanders away from his tent, mumbling under his breath, “Dammit. Night’s sleep is too much to ask, ain’t it?” The crickets do not answer, but he has to keep so much else locked in his lungs nowadays talking to himself feels half alright.

“Arthur?” Dutch’s voice startles Arthur back to camp and the crackle of dry grass under his boots.

Dutch sits in the glow of a lantern on the far side of his tent, reading in the dim light. The shiny buttons and gleaming fabric of his waistcoat are absent at this late hour and he looks so different without them, a white collared shirt like any other man, a rooster without feathers. His eyes widen and he closes his book with a quick snap. “Arthur. What are you doing up at this late hour, son?” Dutch keeps his voice low, quiet, reassuring. Arthur feels something dumb and childish rise up in his heart at Dutch’s words, relief despite the doubt fermenting in his guts over the past weeks. He has not avoided Dutch, not intentionally, but seeking him out for a chat has felt like more than Arthur can handle. Not ready yet. The words feel too muddied to let out just yet. Dutch asked after him a few times, attempts to talk, sent Hosea, even Sean to ask Arthur if he had the time to spare. But something else always needed doing, a job to do, some errand to run that takes Arthur away from camp.

Maybe he _has_ been avoiding Dutch. He wishes he did not feel such an intense, burning desire to keep it that way, to avoid speaking to the man and escape all of this. Go back to the way things were. Arthur wants nothing more than to sit next to Dutch and let this whole mess of the fortune out. Wonders if Dutch might believe him. Doubts it in the next moment.

Arthur’s hands fiddle with the belt loop on his pants and pressure mounts in his throat. He kicks at a pebble in the dust under his boots, avoids Dutch’s eyes. “Couldn’t sleep. What’re you doing up?”

“Oh. Ah. I’ve been…having some troubles sleeping myself.” Dutch says it with a sheepish vulnerability, just enough to clue Arthur in on what he is meant to ask next.

_Years. Years of trust and going to the edges of the world. Dutch’s voice guiding, leading, supporting. Cold, brash, but strong, so solidly there for Arthur when he needed him. Saved him a lifetime ago when Arthur was so young and so alone._

“You feeling alright, Dutch?” Fortune be damned. _Devils_ and _ash_ and all. Arthur sits in the chair next to Dutch’s and feels his shoulders lighten.

“Of course, I am, Arthur. Never better. Now that we’re out of those mountains I feel as though I’m finally thinking clearly. Just have a great deal to think about is all. No rest for the wicked.” Dutch smiles at his own choice of words. Teeth bright in the lantern glow.

_The path of the devil._

“Suppose so.” Arthur hums the agreement, but it sits wrong in his throat, itches like a bug bite.

“Are you alright, Arthur? You’ve seemed out of sorts. More than usual, I mean.” Dutch chuckles, deep and cold, and Arthur does not have the energy to rise to the bait.

“Yeah I’m…I’m fine. Just had a lot on my mind recently.”

“Well, don’t strain yourself now.”

Arthur lets the comment and its laughter pass. Would have felt shame for it before, would duck his head to hide, but now he just listens to the coo of an owl out in the trees. He runs a hand across his mouth, tries to build up momentum. _Change_. “Do you think…I mean at the rate we been going all these years do you think…maybe…we need to change?”

Crickets punctuate the pause as Dutch stares into the side of Arthur's head. “I’m sorry son but I don’t follow you.”

Arthur feels sweat start up on his neck despite the chill this late at night. “Just wondering what we’re doing here, Dutch. We keep running but it ain’t like it used to be. Feels like the world is changing without us.” Talking to Dutch felt so easy before those dusty words wrapped themselves around Arthur’s neck. He wishes he could go back to that time.

But maybe this is the way he gets things to change. Not changing himself but convincing Dutch to lead the gang on a different path. Talking is not Arthur’s strong suit, he knows it, but he has to try. Dutch always seems reasonable, always willing to hear others out. Perhaps a shift in his thinking would be enough to change him, to prevent his becoming the devil in Arthur’s future. Thinking on it now, in the dark and the quiet, he wants that more than anything.

“We’re going to get some money and we’re going to ride West when the time is right. You have got to have faith in me, Arthur.” A bubble of acid washes up into Arthur’s mouth at the echo from his nightmare and he swallows the dread down. “I can get us out of this, but it is going to take time, and effort, and hard work. And I know we are capable of that.” The words, practiced and sure in a strange way, make Arthur duck his head down, wring his hands and study the callouses there. Looks at the scar on his left pinkie from when he taught John how to skin a deer and the knife got away from the both of them. He wonders if he is the only one in camp thinking these things. If these doubts of Dutch leading them ever crosses John’s mind, or Hosea’s. Wonders if he really is just crazy.

Arthur steels himself with the memory of his nightmare, knows his family could end in a wash of blood and gunfire even without that damn fortune to remind him. But it has made everything feel so close. So much screaming. “And how long till those plans run out? Plans are what got us here. We been running so long, Dutch, and that old song and dance isn’t getting us anywhere anymore. Don’t you see that?”

Dutch coughs, as if his lungs cannot take Arthur’s words. “Arthur…where is this coming from? This…this seems rather sudden.” Dutch’s voice shifts toward anger, a pebble dropped in a lake. Tiny, quiet ripples.

“Shouldn’t be. Jenny, Mac and Davey, they’ve been dead in the ground for near a month, Dutch.” Dutch looks to the ground with a sad sort of frown, one that bolsters Arthur’s next words, “We can’t keep running. I want to keep on just the way we always have been. More than you know. But I can’t…I can’t lose more people, Dutch.”

“We are not running, Arthur. We do not run. Don’t know how many times I have to tell you that. We are not mindless criminals. We are not vagabonds on a path of destruction. We are men and women chasing the freedom denied us by our circumstances.” Where once Arthur found comfort, pride, now he only finds excuses.

Arthur knows the gang is running. Running from Pinkertons and bounty hunters and change. Foxes fleeing hounds. “Well if we ain’t running, then what are we doing, Dutch?”

The lantern hisses between them and Dutch scoffs to fill space. “I don’t think I have ever heard you hold me in such…doubt before, Arthur.” Hurt eases into his voice, and Arthur forces himself to ignore it, pushes through it with a blindness he hopes will get him through.

“Never felt a reason to. But from where I’m sitting, all this faith and planning ain’t getting us much of anywhere.” It rumbles out of his mouth, tastes like a bad bit of Pearson’s cooking, and he knows he cannot take it back.

“Arthur, what do you mean exactly?” Dutch’s tone rattles like a diamondback’s tail now. Dangerous. Careful steps.

“We haven’t been this far East in years Dutch. The law is coming down on us harder than they ever have. Hell, we lost everything in Blackwater. I ain’t saying you’ve led us astray. I trust you to do right by us, I do, but maybe it’s time to-,” Arthur feels his tongue, his words, getting away from him. A mess like they always are.

“You sound like Hosea. So, you want us to lie down, is that it? Settle down and give up our hard-won freedom? Abandon a life we have worked so hard to keep?” Dutch asks, demands, with enough force that Arthur bows his head, feels the tremble of fear start in his hands again.

The miserable hope growing in Arthur’s lungs shivers, a sprout in a brisk wind, tells him there is a life besides this running and stealing and killing. “Dutch I ain’t saying-,”

“You’re right. You are not saying what you really mean. But I think I understand perfectly well, Arthur.” It is a quiet growl, a tone Dutch never uses on Arthur. So much contempt and anger packed into it like a rotten tooth. “You’re saying you want to change your ways and follow along with the way the world has been changing? Turn me in to the bounty hunters and hang up your hat?”

Arthur’s mind recoils worse than a jammed rifle. The words are too quick. This isn’t how it was supposed to go, not what he wants. The sudden switch to hostility is enough to make his ears ring, makes his head snap up and stare into eyes he never thought could look so cold. “Dutch I would never-,” His words are too quiet, too weak. He tastes blood in his mouth, _he will take everything from you_, too sharp, “That ain’t who I am, Dutch. All I’m saying is-,”

Dutch opens his mouth, looks ready to argue the night away, but something stops him. It settles heavy over his shoulders and he nods, mouth grim and severe. The lantern light flickers over his dark eyes. Coal fires. “I…see what you’re saying, Arthur. I will have to think on what you’ve said. You’ve given me a lot to think about.” He looks away to the smoldering campfire pits and his eyes are barely visible in the dark. The air around them feels charged with promise and Arthur feels his spine sweat with it. “Yes…A lot to think about.”

To hell with change. Arthur has not felt this sort of fear since he was a boy, afraid of Dutch leaving him on his own, alone again without anyone to give a damn about him. Dutch does not look to be paying him any attention now, gazing up at the clear night sky with a frown pasted across his mouth. Arthur wants to scramble up to standing and flee back to his tent.

Instead, he stands on weak legs, looks to the ground near Dutch’s boots so there is no chance their eyes will meet. His spine trembles and his hands curl into fists, nails biting into his palms. “I’ve followed you for twenty years, Dutch. Always kept my faith in you. But I don’t want us to lose nobody else to all of this mess. And with the way we’re going, I don’t see this ending any other way.”

A touch of night air cool against his cheek. Dutch’s head remains turned away and a kernel of anger flares in Arthur’s stomach. After all this time, Dutch thinks Arthur will be the one to betray them all? Turn traitor and throw them all to the mercies of the law? It makes his heart ache in a way it never has before, hollow and tinged with cold, seeping red. Blood stained water dripping into a porcelain sink. But it fuels something in him because his words flow easier. “It’s getting too dangerous to live the way we do, Dutch. How long till the Pinkertons catch someone? Till they charge into camp? The world doesn’t want folk like us no more. If we hadn’t gotten Sean out when we did, or if someone else got caught-,” Arthur runs out of air when he notices Dutch has stopped listening. Tilts his head away as if all Arthur says is just noise. His legs tremble, and he feels like a boy again, a voice people did not want or care to hear.

“We’ll be fine. They ain’t killed us yet. Go get some shut eye, boy. We’re going to need you strong for the months ahead.” It is as much of a dismissal as Dutch is going to give him, but the voice is harsh, and it stings. Arthur’s throat chokes with the words he wants to say, wants to make Dutch turn back, but it feels useless. Something lost. So, Arthur turns away and walks.

He wanders to the front of the camp, the darkness of the woods and the gentle murmur of sleeping horses. The tents feel too closed in, the wagons too large, and his breathing comes too fast. In the shadows of poplar and oak and maple, he spots Bill standing with his back to the camp.

Arthur knows after so many years to not startle Bill, to whistle or make such a ruckus that the man has a chance to turn around and notice Arthur is not a danger. The war stories get old around the campfires, but Arthur does not have the energy to get shot at right now.

He bumbles through the woods, kicking at branches and bracken until Bill turns around with a quickness born of only mild panic. “Hell, Morgan. You always make such a ruckus when you walk through the woods?”

“Ah, suppose I didn’t notice. Ain’t like I’m trying to be sneaky.” Arthur tries to give his voice some warmth, but it falls flat.

“Well what in the hell are you doing out here, then.”

“Head off to bed, Bill. I’ll take the rest of watch.” Before Bill can ask, Arthur shrugs and feels too much weight on his shoulders. “Couldn’t sleep. Go on, I’ll take over.”

Bill looks as though he tries to hide his surprise, his relief at getting out of watch early, but it shows plain on his face anyway. He passes the rifle over. “Well thanks, Morgan. Summers is supposed to take over in the morning.”

Arthur watches Bill trudge back to camp, holds his breath and waits a few minutes before allowing himself to lose control of his breathing, to start pacing through the underbrush. He keeps moving, walking the perimeter more than he needs to. Chews at the inside of his cheek. His hands tremble on the rifle stock and all he wants is to saddle Rosie and ride out of camp into the open space of the country. But he needs to protect his family and he knows it would do no good besides. Suppose Dutch has one thing right; running will not fix this.

Some of his steps stumble, legs too jittery to balance. His breathing is too fast, quick like a rabbit until his vision starts to darken. Shadows creeping in, too close, too cruel. He forces himself to sit on a log before he falls. He stares at the ground, the trees, the sky, begging his vision to clear and his nerves to calm. A whine escapes through his teeth, harsh and fragile, the sound of wanting all of this mess to just go away.

Talking to Dutch never unsettles him this much, makes him feel so uncomfortable in his own skin and words and ideas, as if everything Arthur said tonight is wrong. In twenty years of following after Dutch like the lost child he is, Arthur has never felt so afraid. Through the canopy of trees, the cold light of the stars presses in so close he feels as if he cannot breathe.

_Your whole life, son, you have followed the wrong star._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: This chapter was a nightmare to write and I’m still not happy with it.


	8. Worries

Kieran’s mother always called him such a worrisome child. A baby prone to cry at anything, a toddler too afraid of the big world to venture far from his mother’s skirts, a young man too soft-spoken to make anything of himself.

If only she knew him now. Shoveling horse shit in a gang encampment filled with criminals who want to kill him. Not that Kieran isn’t a criminal too, running with Colm made quick work of that. And it is not as if being a part of the O’Driscolls was much safer than this.

She would be so proud.

Kieran sets the shovel aside and straightens out his back. By this time most days his muscles ache, but truth be told there is not much in the way of chores left to do today. Most of the gang are enjoying the sunny afternoon, napping or reading or whatever it is they all get up to. Kieran shovels manure and brushes horses and hauls hay bales because he is so afraid of being caught with empty hands. Afraid someone will find him in a moment of calm only to ruin it.

The lure of saddling Branwen, making a mad dash, to hell with caution, escaping, floats through his mind, buzzes like mosquitoes in hot summer air. Persistent. He knows he would not survive if he were to leave. Dutch would send a war party after him, or an O’Driscoll would recognize him somewhere down the line. It makes him feel like a squirrel trapped in a tree with hounds barking up the trunk, slavering jaws and predatory eyes. Trapped between two groups that want him dead and with no way out. So, he stays. Bears the weight of so many people hating him because of something he only wants to forget.

Kindnesses have been few and far between. A greeting here, a conversation in passing there. Some of them are warming up to him, he thinks anyway; Susan’s voice is no longer shrill when she sets him another chore, Pearson does not glare at him when he approaches the soup pot at supper time. Arthur gave him a bedroll.

That last one is the strangest so far. While Kieran is thankful to not be sleeping in the dirt and the cold, he is still unsure how to think of the man. Arthur is a strange one; at first so cruel and angry, but now he is something closer to indifferent. No jeers or threats, but no friendly words either. Kieran finds himself thankful in a way, yet wary of when the other shoe will drop. Like a street dog afraid of being kicked after taking a handout.

Spring sunshine beams down on him, with a chill in the air promising a rainstorm later tonight. Kieran’s throat feels parched and he glances over to the main campfire where a kettle of clean water sits in the flames. None of the men are around, Grimshaw nowhere to be seen. Karen sits at the supper table and he spies Strauss sitting near the cliff edge, but they are smaller threats. This is the best chance he may have today of drinking water not meant for the horses. He wipes his hands on his pants, tilts his head down and walks into camp. The further into the forest of ropes and tent poles the faster his heart beats. Patters against his ribs as he walks. His spine tenses, and he glances around, knowing at any moment Bill, Javier, Sean, could sneak up on him and trip him, threaten him.

The fire crackles, and the heat caresses his face, a comfort he is only allowed to feel in these passing moments. He pours a cup of whatever sits in the kettle, and a sniff clears his nose out. It is a mix of mint and rosemary, strong and as close to tea as he has gotten in months. He takes a sip, boiling hot, and savors it, clings to the cup and its warmth.

He turns back, meets Karen’s shrewd eye from where she sits with a lit cigarette, and does his best to walk without stumbling, speak without the nervous stutter ticking away in his lungs. “Afternoon, Miss Karen. You doing alright?” He nearly keeps walking, avoids a potential insult or jab, but his ma taught him to be respectful when talking to a lady and his feet feel nailed to the ground.

Karen looks up at him, eyebrow arched just enough for Kieran to feel scrutiny and nerves. A smile touches the corners of her mouth, “I’m doing just dandy. How about yourself?”

“Oh, ah, well, they haven’t killed me yet, so-,” His lungs twinge with unused air and he trails off, hoping to escape back out of camp again. He can sit next to Branwen for a while, drink his tea in the sunlight and pretend he is anywhere else.

But Karen squints and her mouth frowns. “Course no one’s killed you. What do you mean?”

“Well the men around here…they, ah. I mean-,” Kieran bites his tongue. Should not have said that. Should have said he was fine, thanked her, scurried off like the rat Dutch says he is.

Karen takes a drag from her cigarette and blows the smoke away from him into the wind. A politeness he does not expect. “Don’t worry, Kieran. They act tough, but they’re good boys. Or, most of them anyway.” A weary tiredness around her eyes undermines her words. It was not so long ago she threw a cigarette in his face, when he was tied to the post and at the gang’s mercy. But if she is going to act as if that never happened, he can do the same.

Kieran swallows the lump in his throat and steps closer to the table, allows his voice to drop closer to a whisper. “It ain’t the ‘most’ I’m worried about.” He checks around them, sees Javier watching from one of the lean-tos, and Kieran feels his blood still. The man has had no qualms over letting Kieran know exactly what he thinks of an O’Driscoll living so close.

Karen snorts, and Kieran turns back, watches her eyes harden, icy blue. “You’re one of us now, Kieran. You’ll be fine.” She looks away from him, and her voice hushes, matches a fraction of his fear. “I was scared too when I first joined. Ain’t easy to join a group this big. And some of us ain’t too friendly to start, but we take care of our own. Some of the men can be trouble, but…” She nods to herself, looks up at him with warmer eyes, “Sean, Javier, Arthur especially, they just act tough. Only ones you really need to worry about are Bill and Micah.”

“Mrs. Adler too.” Kieran mumbles. Karen snorts a laugh, and he feels his shoulders rise up a touch with the sound. He understands Sadie’s grief, he does, but knowing makes her rage no less scary. Or dangerous.

He should walk back to the horses, take his prize of mint tea and words of comfort from someone he never imagined would act like this with him. The opportunity to ask a question starts to float out of his reach, driftwood on a river. “Can I ask you something, Miss Karen?”

“Sure.” She does not miss a beat, and he goes with it.

“Has Arthur always…I mean is this how he always is? Because I…I feel like I met a very different Arthur up in them mountains.”

He expects her to roll her eyes and ask what the hell he means by that. But she stares off into the distance, the mountains and their snowy peaks. Seems a lifetime ago they were all freezing up in those forests. “It ain’t your imagination, Duffy. Arthur’s been different the past few weeks. Don’t know what bee got into his bonnet, but he’s…kinder, I suppose. To us women, anyway. Weren’t ever mean or nothing, but…I don’t quite know what to make of it.”

Movement out of the corner of his eye, and Kieran is nodding to her, scurrying off, “Thank you for talking with me, Miss Karen.” He walks back to the horses, ignores the fear prickling over his shoulders as best he can. Begs his hands to stop shaking so he will not spill his tea.

Spurs on boots, a clearing throat, “You alright, Karen?” Smoke and cactus spines and a revolver shining in the sunshine.

Kieran hears Karen’s voice, “C’mon, Javier. Leave him alone.” And he does not stop to push his luck.

* * *

Afternoon drifts along and Kieran tries to ignore it. He drinks his tea out in the woods, far enough from camp so he can pretend he is alone, close enough so Lenny will not shoot from where he stands on watch. At least Kieran hopes so.

People drift in as the sun rolls down toward the horizon. Sean with a clinking velvet bag in his hands, a pleased smirk across his mouth. Strauss clutching that ledger of his. Charles with a string of bloody rabbits on a line. They leave their horses to him, and Kieran feels some pride in that, small as the feeling may be. Except Charles. The man shakes his head when Kieran approaches and moves to start brushing down his own horse, “I’ll take care of her.”

The empty air squirms in Kieran’s guts as he goes back to tugging knots out of a draft horse’s mane. Charles is just as intimidating as any of the other men in the gang even though he does not threaten Kieran like the others do. It is all heavy silences and heavier looks that tell Kieran just how quickly Charles will catch him if he tries to run from camp.

Taima joins the rest of the herd, the sun starts to set, and Kieran breathes out, moves to settle against Branwen for a while, brush the stallion’s hide even though it already shines. The horse snuffles against his head, knocks his hat askew, and he feels a rush of emotion choke up his throat knowing Branwen has followed him this far. Did not have to, could have run off, but he is still here.

It is an hour or two before sunset when Arthur’s mare, Rosie, trods up the path leading to camp. Her warm coat is sweaty and dusty, long hours on the trail, and Kieran rushes to lead her away. But Arthur waves him off, dismounts and starts untacking her without a second glance.

Kieran stands there, tugs at the thin stitching along the sleeve of his coat, “Evening Mr. Morgan.” He says, prays he is not stepping too far.

“Duffy.” Arthur grunts. He does not sound angry, just weighed down with too much, and Kieran's shoulders relax a fraction of tension. Something pulled tight in his ribs releases pressure at the use of his last name. _Duffy _instead of _O'Driscoll._ He ushers Branwen back to the herd, knows he needs to look useful with Arthur standing so close, and leads the Count some distance away, knows to keep the stallion far from the other horses so he will not nip at the first chance. Arthur, leading Rosie toward the herd with a brush in hand, glances at him but starts working at the dust caked in Rosie’s coat, seeming unconcerned with Kieran’s presence.

Kieran keeps all of his focus on the Count, white coat, pale eyes too near otherworldly, keeps his distance. The Count is a strange horse, just like his rider, but Kieran understands the bites and the kicking hooves, respects the power behind the animal. Supposes it is one of the reasons why the gang follows Dutch so faithfully.

Calm settles around them and Kieran nearly falls into it, the complacency of sharing space with a horse and losing track of time. Tries to remember what Karen said, how different Arthur is from the mean bastard that lassoed Kieran back in that blizzard on the mountain. Maybe Arthur doesn’t completely hate his guts. But he sees a flash of shining movement close to the tents and ducks behind the Count’s shoulder.

“Arthur! You’re back. You mind coming over and talking with me for a minute?” Dutch's voice comes from the edge of camp and Kieran freezes, feels the Count’s muscles twitch under his hand. The voice is not pleading, but it sounds strange to Kieran's ears. Not desperate. But getting close.

Arthur stills. Hands at Rosie’s whithers and a tension in his spine. “What do you need?” He calls it over his shoulder, keeps his head tucked down and his hands busy.

“Well, I uh…” Dutch looks to the ground between the tents and the herd of horses, hesitates a moment before stepping toward Arthur. Shiny black boots caked with mud and manure. He approaches Rosie, standing over Arthur’s shoulder, “I wanted to talk to you about…Well, this is hard for me to say.” Dutch shoots a sharp glare in Kieran’s direction, face cold and furrowed like a bulldog’s.

Kieran looks away as fast as he can and leads the Count away, back to the herd where the stallion lifts his head and takes special care to walk near some of the mares. Kieran continues to brush the stallion’s white coat to a pearly shine. Tries his best to keep him and Old Boy separated. He has his back turned to Arthur and Dutch, but his ears have always been better than they should be, and he eavesdrops without meaning to.

“What do you want, Dutch?”

“Arthur. About what I said last night. It was- I wasn’t thinking clearly-,”

“That’s for damn sure.” Arthur’s voice sounds so closed off. Anger held on a tight leash.

“Arthur please. I did not mean to say what I did. I’ve just been under a great deal of stress. You understand. And I know that is no excuse, that I should know better than that but…”

Kieran hears the pause, the empty space filled with bird chatter and the vague cloud of noise rising from camp as suppertime draws closer. His jaw tenses. His stomach growls, empty for hours now, and he hopes it is not loud enough for the men to hear.

“It’s…It’s fine, Dutch.”

“No, Arthur, it is not. I behaved horribly. So much so that I cannot blame you for the things you said either. I just wanted to ask if we could perhaps put this behind us.”

Arthur sighs and Kieran winces at the exhaustion in it. “It’s fine, Dutch. We both been dealing with a lot lately. I understand.”

“Oh, well…good then. I didn’t want this to come between us.”

“Nah. Just needed some time to think today.”

“Well alright. Then I’ll see you at supper.”

“Sure.”

He hears Dutch walk away, mud squelching under his boots. Going back to brushing the white horsehair in front of him is all he can think to do. He does not dare turn and look, give in to his curiosity and see if Arthur’s face looks as weak as his voice sounds. It has not taken Kieran much time to notice the tension within the gang, the differences between Dutch’s goals and how the gang truly operates.

Rosie’s snort moves closer to the herd, and Kieran worries. Arthur must have noticed him listening, must be about to grab his shoulder and bellow in his face.

“How did you get this bastard to take such a shine to you?”

“Huh?” Kieran pauses in his brushing, confusion overriding his fear. The Count’s lungs rumble and he taps at the mud with an impatient hoof.

Arthur voice is calmer now, not so strained. “I’m talking about the Count. Bastard is meaner than the devil. Won’t let no one but Dutch touch him most of the time.” He takes a step closer, as if he feels the stupid need to demonstrate. Too close. The stallion’s flank tenses, neck curving back to nip.

Kieran knows to step away, to not trust a horse like this, one with such an unsettling glint in its eye. Respect is one thing, trust is another. But Arthur steps back, leaning away with a practice to the movement Kieran did not expect from the man. The Count lunges and shakes himself out when he bites at empty air. “Now that took me too many years to learn. John and I used to dare each other to try and ride him, see how long we could hold on. But you got a knack for it. Never had someone in the gang before who was this good with horses.”

Kieran feels blindsided by the praise, feels worry start to build up in his throat. Knows this won’t last. Nothing ever does. It isn’t as if he is really a part of this gang. Never will be. “Well thank you, Mr. Morgan.” The politeness is something his mouth spits out, beyond his control like it always seems to be. His mama would be so proud.

Arthur stands there, tall and intimidating, yet his shoulders bow down in between breaths. His words are as slow and cautious as a doe moving out into an empty meadow. “Don’t think I ever really said it. Not before…Thank you, Kieran, for saving my life.” Arthur looks down, hat covering his eyes, and he coughs. “Know that don’t mean much, after roping you into this mess in the first place. But I’m…I’m grateful.”

Kieran wishes he could appreciate what Arthur is saying, the risk he must be taking in admitting this. But his head feels too hollow, his hands shake. The Count shuffles nervously under his hand and Kieran forces his breathing to even out before the stallion gets truly agitated.

Arthur must see part of this, must recognize something in Kieran’s stance and eyes, because when Kieran glances up, Arthur takes a step back, sets a hand rubbing at the back of his neck to try and avoid eye contact. “Well, c’mon. Brush him much more and he won’t have nothing left. Let’s get supper.”

“Oh, ah, I’ll catch up with you.” Kieran sets the brush aside in its bucket, thankful to be rid of it, but makes no move toward camp, to the stew pot he can smell all the way out here. His stomach growls, clenches against emptiness. Rabbit and potato soup sounds, smells, lovely. But he knows he will not be allowed to have much of it. And it will come with glares, jeering words from Bill, a scowl from Dutch to remind Kieran just how worthless he is.

A hand settles on his shoulder, pushes him forward. He flinches, instinct after so many years in the army and gangs and being alone, but he follows Arthur’s lead, knows, hopes, the man only intends to be kind, keeps on walking even when Arthur hesitates. “You alright, Duffy?”

“Sorry just worrying about…” He trails off, lets the air out of his lungs. Worrying about being in camp with so many around. Worrying about growing accustomed to food and warmth and people only to be cast out. Worrying about where this gang, seeming so hellbent on following the dreams of one man, will end up. With him in tow.

Worrying about so many things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: I found Branwen in the Horseshoe Overlook camp during my first playthrough and couldn't match the horse to anyone in the gang. Found out he was Kieran's horse in a stray bit of dialogue. I think it's an amazing detail that Branwen followed Kieran through everything - not even a blizzard or the gang keeping Kieran tied up could separate him from that horse.


	9. Journal

Two days. Only two days of space and time Arthur knows he needs, but it is not enough. Feels as though the sun cannot rise soon enough, finds himself begging for sunset, anything to put himself further away from that talk with Dutch. A pair of days he spends thinking himself in circles and he feels no closer to an answer.

Riding out on his own helped. The calm of horse hooves beneath him and open sky all around settled over his shoulders like an old coat. Comforting just the same as it always is. Rode north along the Dakota into foothills he never thought to travel before. His lungs did not twinge at holding back words, his heart ache eased without the stress of beating out of time. And upon his return to camp it felt strangely easy to shuffle back into the maze of tents for a meal with his family. Had to practically drag Kieran by the ear, but the kid seemed a touch less skittish, polite to the rest and Sean even scared a laugh out of him. Arthur keeps reminding himself to _change_ and at least try. The least he can do for a life-debt.

The nightmares have not returned, but they are not gone, he knows it, dreads them when he lays his head on his pillow, but at least he knows they are there. Knows there is a wolf stalking him through the fog and the blood sticky blackberry vines crowding his mind. It is a small relief to know he will not be surprised quite the same again.

But for all of that, he feels no closer to an answer. No closer to knowing if he can trust Dutch to do right by them. By him.

Arthur thinks back, in spite of himself, back so many years, back before speeches and bounties and running. Back before they ever needed this talk of plans. Revenge. Justice. When following Dutch felt as easy as breathing.

_Your whole life, you have followed the wrong star._

He knows it isn’t true. Knows it as sure as the sun shines; warming frosted ground where plants sprout up, blinding him. Dutch is not good, never has been, was probably conning folks the moment he learned to talk. A toddler with a silver tongue. But he is not so evil as everything Arthur feels brewing in his skull. The churning in his gut that keeps promising horrible things.

_“I did not mean to say what I did. I’ve just been under a great deal of stress.”_

So, he meant to say something else? Words with a kinder, calmer tone? Meant to say anything other than what set Arthur’s nerves on fire, singeing and stinging. Or did he mean to say nothing at all? Hold his tongue and leave those paranoid thoughts of betrayal to himself?

They have all been under too much. Dutch is no different. Arthur cannot imagine the pressure of leading them all, but that means so little in this. It does not excuse the words, the accusation, the sad scraps of a justification Dutch tried to pass off as genuine.

_“And I know that is no excuse, that I should know better than that but…”_

No apology. Asking for forgiveness without words, without admittance of how he spoke with so much venom to someone he calls son. A strike of fangs Arthur should have seen coming, should have stepped back from. Best to suck out the poison, spit it out and move on. And he wants to. He wants to stop thinking, second guessing, spinning around in circles. It gets him nowhere. But it isn’t about what he wants.

_They will die._

It is larger than him. It. Doesn’t know what ‘it’ is. These people he wants to fight for so much. Feels the fire of it in his blood. _Save them so they will save you._ He knows they would, thinks they would.

He licks his lips, feels a bloody welt sting under the pass of his tongue, worn raw from nerves. Everything is so much, too much, now. The words tighten against his skin and his lungs struggle to remember just how he is meant to breathe.

“Arthur.”

Charles. Voice steady and deep. A canyon dark and cool enough to not mind getting lost in, to forget the rest of the world. Looking up at him, a silhouette that seems to stretch on forever. Dark blue shirt. Strong jaw that makes Arthur’s cheeks feel warm. Turquoise stones strung around his throat.

Arthur remembers where he is. Sitting under the old oak close to the cliff edge. As far from Dutch’s tent as he can get without leaving camp again. Soft dirt piled under his hands as if he has been fidgeting, like a kid. Remembers now. Comes back. Camp, smoke, chickens clucking as Jack spreads their feed on the ground. Brought back by Charles’ voice and the tone that is not so much worried as,

“You good?” Concern. It is a concern in Charles’ voice, soft at the edges and a touch unfamiliar. His brows drawn down and a tilt to his head.

“Morning, Charles.” Arthur hates how his voice quakes, sounds so unsure in his ears. Charles hears it, he must. “Nah, just, in my head is all.” He hates his answer, the inevitability in it. But he smiles up at Charles, knows the man will notice how weary the expression is. No use hiding it from someone so perceptive. Such a watchful man, Charles is. It is too heavy on Arthur’s mind to try and mask it with something else anyway. Even with their friendship, the warm flower of it blooming in Arthur’s stomach, he knows he can only expect a knowing nod, a few parting words, and then the man will leave him alone. Need to keep this mess to himself anyway. Cannot ask more of Charles like that.

“You feel up to a hunt?”

Arthur feels his heart pang, “Wouldn’t be much help to you. I’d just scare game off like always.” It is all he can muster; he wants so badly to get up and leave with Charles, ride through the countryside and forget for a while, feel lost in the calm of Charles’ presence. It aches in his chest, but he tamps it down.

Camp moves around them, a body of noise and movement both close yet disconnected from everything. Arthur forces himself to look away from Charles, from what he wants, and stares back toward emptiness floating past the cliff edges. Tries to ignore the sick tumbling in his stomach.

Charles’ boots stand in Arthur’s peripheral for a few moments too long. They move forward, not away, and Arthur turns. “Here. Eat this and get your things. Might be a long trip.” Charles drops something in his hands, a lump wrapped in a dark blue handkerchief, and Arthur’s stomach surges up at the smell of cornbread and fire softened jerky. Must have skipped breakfast again. Didn’t notice.

“What do you mean?”

Charles stares into him. A gaze so piercing, Arthur feels as though he should flinch, run, hide. Wonders if this is how a deer would feel on the other side of Charles’ drawn bow. But Arthur holds himself together, grasps at rough edges so he does not have to look away from those beautiful, knowing eyes. “I know the look of a man who needs space to think. And you don’t look close to moving on your own. So, come on.” Charles’ voice is so quiet, so full of emotions Arthur does not know how to recognize. He wants to understand, wants to stand up and follow Charles out of camp so badly.

The handkerchief is soft in his hands, worn cotton against rough callouses. Delicate blue flowers embroidered at the corners.

“Alright.”

* * *

They are hunting elk. That is what Charles finally tells him after a few miles of trail takes them far from camp. With every mile, every inch, Arthur feels something in his chest lessen. He rolls his shoulders back with it and settle into the ride, settles into the calm of riding alongside Charles. “Spotted traces of a herd up near Mount Hagen. Figure we could feed the camp for a few weeks.”

Rosie trots beside Taima as if they are out for nothing more than a stroll, an easy thing that should not make Arthur’s skin tingle and hands sweat. But the sight of Charles, tall and sure as they pass meadows, stands of trees, it makes everything in Arthur’s head fizzle out, a lit cigarette thrown in a puddle. The noise is gone, and thinking does not hurt his head quite so much. They cross the Dakota in a spray of spring cold and buzzing water bugs. Arthur feels his lungs decompress with the chill, feels his ears flush with embarrassed blood when he catches himself watching the curve of Charles’ shoulders and back.

The horses snorting to each other, the chatter of birds flitting through the undergrowth around them, it is all the noise they need. Arthur’s throat does not itch with needing to say something and fill the silence, somehow knows Charles will not mind the silence, not in the least.

They travel along with the slow fade of the day. Pine trees rise up from the foothills around them. A gale of wind rushes at them and Arthur holds his hat to keep it from flying off. Charles’ hair blows back from his face, a wisping dark cloud behind him, and Arthur looks away to try and swallow the lump in his throat. It is ridiculous to feel this way. One more thing to hide away and ignore. Hope it goes away soon.

Approaching the Little Creek River valley, an open plain of towering flower stalks, lupines already bloom and paint the ground with deep purples and a soft lavender made stronger by the soon to be setting sun. It strikes Arthur, as it does in small moments of beauty like this, how he never noticed such things before. Never paid as much mind to the flowers and their sweet smell in the air as he should have. Makes him remember and wonder what else he misses in trying to keep his head down, in trying to forget _betrayed by those you trust most_. Even after so long living with the words, only a few weeks that feel like years, he still grits his teeth and shuts his eyes and tries to throw off this feeling of dread.

“You alright, Arthur?” Charles’ question, so unlike him to break the silence, so quiet and tentative. It startles Arthur into looking. Looking at the warmth of darkening sunlight washing over Charles’s face. The bridge of his nose and the crinkle there he now knows means concern. The man rides beside him, strong and serene and stunning in ways Arthur could never be.

But he answers, does not dare let the words fall into the wind and lie in the dirt; Charles’ concern does not deserve Arthur ignoring him. “I’m fine.”

Charles gives a tough sounding hum, the sound of knowing a lie.

“I…” Arthur hesitates, feels acid eating at the tender column of his throat, the space in between his ribs. It burns and it gnaws, and he just wants it to _stop_. “I suppose not…Been out of sorts lately. Don’t…don’t quite know why.”

_“I behaved horribly. So much so that I cannot blame you for the things you said either.”_

Arthur knows exactly why.

A herd of deer stand farther off down the valley. Arthur looks, but does not see any trace of antlers, bright eyes staring too far, that stag from what seems like so long ago. Wonders now if it was a ghost looking at him from the lake shore that day. The animals must spot their horses; with a rush of silent movement they bound off into the trees. River water burbles beside the trail and Arthur keeps his eyes on the flow of water. Light shining back into his eyes. “Can I ask you something?”

“Always.”

Arthur feels his lungs shudder, blindsided by the honesty. A single word powerful enough to rip the doubt from his own. “Where do you think we’re headed? I mean…you ain’t been with the gang very long but…you got a good head on your shoulders.” In the pause between breaths, he hears himself and feels blood rush to his face. “I mean. I mean I ain’t saying things are going to get bad. But uh, just figured…someone like you might have a different way of looking at it. I’m…I think I been in it too long to really see it for what it is.” His thoughts are too bogged down with memories, thoughts and wisps of happier times, times when Hosea did not cough when John did not leave when Dutch did not _taunt_.

_“You’re saying you want to change your ways…Turn me in to the bounty hunters and hang up your hat?”_

“Seems like you would be the one to know how things are going. I haven't known you all too long.” Charles holds back air, holds back words. Arthur sees it in the tightness of his shoulders, reminds himself to look away again.

“That’s the worst part. I don’t. Dutch ain’t acting like himself.” Arthur remembers moments in years past when Dutch would have bowed to Hosea’s advice to keep moving so much sooner, weeks ago when the frost and snow were still melting off of their clothes. Before _change_.

Charles pauses, “I trust Dutch to lead. Have to after he took me in the way he did. But the rest of it, I’m not sure. You think things are going to get bad?”

Arthur revels in Charles’ voice, allows himself a few moments, basks in the sheer solidity of it even with Arthur's doubts in the air. “I been running with him since the beginning, just him and Hosea and me. And if I’m being honest, I don’t rightly know. He’s said things to me that I…It’s just not like him. And-,”

In an impulsive rush, Arthur feels the fortune tighten around his throat and he nearly mentions it. Nearly tells Charles about it, the blind man and his words and how time seems to be slipping away from Arthur too fast. Nearly talks about this stupid notion Arthur has in his head to change who he is for the sake of folks that wouldn’t believe him if he told them all this. It would be a mess of words; a mud slide Arthur would have no hope of controlling.

He swallows it down. “I just don’t know. Thought you might have a better sense of it. Forget I said anything.” Knows it is too much to hope that Charles will ignore this blunder.

“Man like you being so worried is no small thing. Suppose I’ll have to keep a better eye out.” Charles voice is darker than it was just a moment ago, shadows passing over moonlit wild roses.

When no more words follow, Arthur wonders if he has made a mistake in mentioning any of it, hopes he has not, knows deep in his bones that Charles is not the type of man to go spreading something like this, but he does not want to think about it too hard. Everything keeps stalling in his head, too much thinking. Circling like a dog stupid enough to chase its tail.

“There you go again.”

“Huh?”

“You get this look on your face,” Charles is smiling when Arthur glances over, the slight hint of upturned lips that makes him feel butterfly wings in his stomach. Then a drawn down brow, a wrinkled nose, squinting eyes that look so strange on Charles’ face, an imitation of Arthur’s ugly mug he has seen many times thanks to John’s childish mimicking streak. “Like you’re thinking too loud.” He relaxes his face, back to arched brows and eyes so weighed down and tired of the world. They shine with something Arthur wants to lose himself in.

Arthur feels embarrassed heat rise up his throat, a put-down quick on its heels. “Well. That’s a first. Most people say I don’t think much at all.”

“Makes me think those people must not see much of you.” Quick, a fast strike that leaves Arthur baffled. His hands clench on Rosie’s reins, desperate for something solid. His tongue feels too big for his mouth. Feels his words fly off like a flock of startled birds. He glances to Charles, looks away from his face in a rush so as to not be caught, barely catches the warm glint in his eyes, notices the paleness of old scars along his forearm instead, rolled up sleeves and no shame at the marks. Focuses on them and the stories Charles must have hidden behind them. Arthur wants to ask, but fuzz clogs in his mouth. It will only bring up bad memories, he is sure, nothing Charles wants to remember for the sake of drawing attention away from Arthur’s bumbling.

Arthur fumbles for a minute, “I…you…I mean…” and falls silent. Takes a deep gulp of air and tries again, ignoring the teasing curve of Charles’ mouth, “Kind of like you in a way. You do so much for the camp even though people don’t mention it much.”

Charles' face settles like earth coming to rest after a landslide. A shiver of dust and sudden shadows. Arthur thinks he has seen that shadow before, cannot quite remember where. “I do what needs to be done.” Something sounds too dark in his voice, and Arthur worries he has stepped too far.

“Charles, you do more than anyone in camp. Wouldn’t be able to keep on without you.” He hopes his voice is as sincere as he feels in his heart, hopes his voice does not stumble for him. Always seems to when he needs it most.

Charles turns his face away, and Arthur feels fear sweat spring up on his neck at the thought of saying something wrong. “Don’t know about all that. I just do what I can when I can. Got on just fine before I joined.”

“Now you know that ain’t true. The gang wouldn’t be the same without you, Charles.” Arthur wonders at how strong Charles is, how strong they all are for having the man’s silent support. Wonders where he would be without Charles’ presence today. Lost in something so much bigger than him. An idea so daunting he feels close to sicking up with it.

“Hell I…I would still be in camp today if not for you. Didn’t have to bring me along, but you did.” He tries to sort through words, say something poetic and impressive, but what comes out is as simple and grateful as he feels. “Thank you, Charles.”

Charles looks over at him, turns his head away again in a quick flash of movement Arthur hopes he does not misread.

“Of course.”

Silence settles back over them, and Arthur leaves Charles to it. If the man wants to voice a protest again, Arthur is sure he can make a strong case. The attention is off of him and his heart ceases hammering. Hills rise up around them and the horses start trekking uphill. The lupines thin out and soon tough piles of brambles and sapling trees block them in on the trail.

“Can I ask you something?” Charles’ voice rises in the silence with the river now left behind.

“Course.” Arthur tries so hard to match Charles’ tone from before; hopes he does because if he cannot give his friend this then he ain’t worth much of anything at all.

“What made you start writing in that journal?”

It throws him off. Throws him off worse than a mustang too wild to break. It throws him off that Charles would even ask, out in the woods and with so much else he could bring up. Anything else. It is not the usual questions. What does he write? Why does he of all people keep a journal? Why would a brute like him need to write down his thoughts? At least that is what the rest of them always joke anyway, with unknowing laughter and cruelly indifferent eyes.

But Charles is his friend, deserves some trust, so maybe, “Ah…Hosea gave me an empty one a lot of years ago. Said if I was gonna brood so much I might as well write it down.” He chuckles, tries to offset the oily feeling in his stomach. Nothing good ever comes of admitting these things. “Draw sometimes too.”

Charles nods, hums under his breath, thoughtful, and falls silent.

Arthur feels his words fall short, short of what he wants them to be. His gut tells him so. Tells him to offer Charles a look in the journal when they make camp tonight.

The answer is enough, Charles does not, will not, ask again; out of everyone in camp he is the one who most understands boundaries. Even in that certainty, Arthur wants to give more. Give the same trust Charles gives him. Hunting trips and sharing a bottle of whiskey under the light of the moon and gentle words and concerned nudges. Things he knows deep down in his soul mean so much to a man like Charles. Handing over the journal would be that trust, tell him to give it back when he is done picking through it if he is so curious. _Or maybe just a few pages. Maybe just one drawing. Maybe that is too much._

His mind tumbles with it and he tries to stop thinking, focuses on whatever his gut decides. It has yet to steer him too wrong, and he is learning to just let this Charles business run its course. It will never become anything more than his heart beating too fast against his ribs and a trembling itch to hold Charles’ hand. Stupid and dangerous. But he hopes and that can be just for himself alone.

Charles, deep safe good, will not ridicule him, at the very least. The idea of handing over his journal does not make his skin crawl like it does with Dutch and the others. He would die before he hands the journal to Bill or Javier. The lesser of the evils would be one of the women, but he knows even Mary-Beth would find a way to use it as some weakness. There would be tittering laughter and shame in his guts. They are family, his family, _save them_, but he will not give them this. Cannot give them this.

Yet he is fine with Charles reading it. Known him less than most everyone and yet his gut tells him it would be alright.

So, he leaves it alone. The back of his neck is not sweating, his hands are not shaking; it will be fine. Later. Later he will trust.

* * *

Charles watches Arthur sketch from across the campfire, rasping pencil over paper. The man is so focused, so intent on what he is doing, he does not seem to notice eyes on him. Only the softest touch of sunset still hangs over them, horses settled down for the night, and Charles watches. He has never seen Arthur so relaxed about opening the journal around others. Even in the camp he sits on the outskirts or hides in his tent, covering the pages with his arm and keeping the book on his person. Charles wonders if anyone in camp has ever tried to steal the journal. A deep, angry, part of him knows trying to take the book would be the deepest break of trust for a man like Arthur, a man who asks for so little for himself.

Their camp is on the edge of the Grizzlies, fire blazing warm in the mountain chill. With enough space around them now, away from camp and its noise, Arthur looks to be relaxing bit by bit. The fading of tension and worry and fear from his shoulders. It had been worrying to find Arthur hunched in on himself underneath that tree. Hat turned down and mouth frowning and blue eyes so troubled.

Their eyes meet, sudden as a lightning strike, and while Charles forces himself to not look away, he expects Arthur will tell him off, voice a rumble of thunder.

“If you want to take a look…It ain’t done or nothing.” Arthur’s face is difficult to read most days, and this is no different. He makes eye contact, voice full of honesty, and he gestures with the journal, hands loose and seeming unafraid. Yet his shoulders look so tense.

Charles hesitates. Only the worry of pushing too far holds him back. But it has been months. Shooting at the same targets and sharing supper in camp, hunting trips and riding across the prairies without a word between them. Sunlight in Arthur’s hair and the anger in his eyes when he defended the bison. Soft voices and easy smiles in the darkness of a pine tree’s shadow. Charles is unsure what this is, how it will grow, but it is closer than he has felt to someone since he was a child.

“Only if you’re offering.”

Arthur huffs and leans to hand the book over. It hangs open on the page Arthur is working on, a thin length of black ribbon marking the place, and when Charles moves to take it, he feels a hint of resistance before Arthur lets it go.

The drawing takes up both pages. A mess of scribbled lupines from the meadows they rode through today in Stark Ridge. Two horses stand in the foreground, grazing on meadow grass. Rosie, with her solid warm coat, nibbles on flower buds while Taima looks back with a tilt to her head. The swish of her tail, the overcast sky and the scratch of pine trees in the distance. It is beautiful, the lines soft and flowing with motion. Taima's spots scribbled haphazardly, her eyes bright and alive, the flowers a mess of towering stalks.

Charles marvels at it, wonders how long it took Arthur to become so skilled. He runs a finger along the edge of the pages, ruffling as if he will turn them to the start with its soft leather cover, glancing up at Arthur to check if this is okay.

Arthur is watching him, and the man’s eyes widen a touch at the silent question, but he nods, almost too quickly, too eager.

The sounds of night in the forest fade in around them, but Charles hears little of it. Too busy reading entries that are like memories told in gentle sunlight. His mind churns with Arthur’s words, sentimental and so worried for the gang. Soft strokes of pencil over rough paper, plain and quick doodles, detailed sketches that must take Arthur so much time. Smudges of fingerprints. Intricate feathers and detailed landscapes and delicate flower petals. Charles feels his lungs slow with the careful attention he is used to feeling just before releasing an arrow.

This is so much of Arthur. Sitting in his hands just as fragile and vulnerable as holding the man’s hand would be. More so. This journal is a part of his soul, and he trusts Charles enough to simply hand it over, lean back and let him look.

Cigarette smoke drifts to his nose, past the soot of burning brush in the campfire. Arthur fidgets. Picking at a spot of mud on his boot, tugging at a hangnail on his thumb, staring up at the stars only to drop his head to look at the dirt. He tosses the remains of his cigarette into the fire and stares into the surrounding forest as if he is trying to find something to focus on.

Charles notices but continues turning pages. Knows the tells of Arthur’s nerves but trusts the man to say something if he needs to. He reaches the bookmark again, marvels at the wisp of Taima’s tail, traces the edge of the page with a fingertip.

Arthur moves, leaning forward and back as if he did not mean to. But the reaching is too fast, too close to fear. Charles sees it, knows it, and closes the journal. Hands it back and takes special care to not touch Arthur’s hand, to not feel warm skin he wishes he knew.

“Thank you, Arthur. It's... it's beautiful.” The words feel dragged up from the bottom of Charles’ lungs. Emotions choking him out despite his attempts at control. His heart, his stomach, his lungs, fill with such a warmth knowing this part of Arthur. Seeing it and reading the man’s words and knowing him.

Arthur coughs. It sounds startled and cautious and just a touch flustered. A flutter of robin wings. “It’s nothing. Never was much good at it.”

* * *

Arthur’s heart climbs into his throat, scratching and biting as vicious as a cornered musk rat. When he pulls the book back from Charles, his fingertips burn at the near touch, the closeness and knowing he could lean forward. His stomach squirms worse than the first time he let Mary look into one of his old journals. And that was only the one time, so long ago.

Never should have drawn it, knew it then, knows it now. He thought it was safe; cut out the pages of the fortune and that damned stag, tucked them in the back of the book, better to forget them back there anyway, thought it was safe to hand the book over to Charles and not worry. But he worried because it is on the next page. Never should have drawn it. It was an impulse, drawn on a random page because he could not help himself.

Three quarters profile, strong in the light of a setting sun. Hair spilling down to flood the collarbones. Scar on the right cheek. Crackling lightning at the jaw. Eyes soft and shadowed. Some of the shading is not right, not enough. He would need a better pencil for that. Wonders at using watercolors, like in old landscape paintings, to get the light just right, the warmth of dark skin, the fierce calm fire in darker eyes.

But Charles does not know, will never know. It is safe on the next page, just after Taima and Rosie. So close to those testing fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: A small chunk of this was written before literally anything else. Before I added the fortune plot line, before this fic actually had a plot, before I had the crazy idea to post it as my first fic. It's self-indulgent, but I hope ya'll like it.


	10. Silver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 1 Year Anniversary of the release of Red Dead Redemption 2, a game I did not realize would have so much power and emotion and hurt behind it. I still feel blindsided a year later.

“Uncle Arthur?” Jack’s voice bites at Arthur’s guts. He never allows himself the time to linger on why. Close to the ground, high pitched, so familiar, yet not. A ghost.

“Hey, Jack.” He lowers his morning coffee and squints at the kid, only four years old and so small. Even with Arthur sitting on one of the logs surrounding the campfire, Jack can hardly reach his shoulder.

“Uncle Arthur. I need to tell you something.” The boy steps closer, into the smoke of the campfire and his face scrunches. The boy looks so serious, Arthur feels his stomach sink and he leans over to be closer. But Jack grabs a tiny hand onto Arthur’s shirt, hoists himself up to whisper into his ear, voice high as a finch call. “It’s almost mama’s birthday and I want to get her a present. Can we ride to town?”

Arthur feels his lungs constrict, coughs to dislodge whatever emotion is stuck there. He thinks of asking if the kid went to his father, the man who should be doing this. But he knows the answer would hurt them both. “Alright. I’ll take you into town. Run and tell your Pa to come talk to me and then we’ll go.”

Jack smiles too bright and scampers off into the camp.

Arthur sighs heavy enough to bow his shoulders. He knows he has wasted too much time since hearing that fortune, knows he needs to get his act together and do something. Even if it is small. And he has to get this just right. One wrong word will set this house of cards toppling. He never would have bothered with this before. Before the nightmares of screaming and crying and knowing it is their voices he hears. _Change._

“You’re meddling.” Hosea says, loud as he pleases to cover the distance between them. He sits with his feet propped up on the game table and Arthur thinks a man that old should not be so good at balancing backwards in his chair.

“I ain’t doing no such thing.” Arthur stands up and dusts off the knees of his pants, careful to avoid meeting Hosea’s eyes. There is no dirt on his pants, but he has fallen for this trick of Hosea’s too many times.

“Don’t play dumb with me, boy.”

“You saying I shouldn’t?”

“Just be careful. I won’t be the one coming to your defense when John realizes what you’re doing.” Something in Hosea’s voice gets thicker, protective.

Arthur scoffs, chances a glance up, “You’re assuming he’s smarter than he is.”

Hosea’s eyes come close to glaring. Bleak with disappointment. “Be kind to your brother. Someday he’ll be all the family you have left.” The words, morbid and scary and _save them_, make Arthur stumble. When he looks to Hosea, the old man is smiling in the wry way Arthur cannot help but find comforting. “And pick up a paper for me while you’re in town. Don’t get into any trouble.” Hosea goes back to his book and Arthur feels time slipping away again. River silt drifting through his fingers. Feels hopeless with it, the weight of its absence.

Abigail walks past, a basket of washing on her hip, and Arthur coughs to break himself out of all this damn thinking, melancholy that won’t accomplish anything, and to get her attention. “Hey, Abigail. Thought I’d take Jack into town for a bit if that’s alright with you.” His stomach rumbles with nerves that she will ask why Arthur is bothering. Spiteful and venomous. He knows he does not spend near as much time with Jack as he should, but he is trying. Maybe it will not make up for all the time he has missed, but it is a start. That is what he will keep telling himself.

Surprise makes her pause, but it falls away to leave a small smile. “Of course. Thank you, Arthur.” In the morning sunlight and the chill of spring, she is beautiful, and not for the first time Arthur wonders what the hell John is thinking in letting her go. Best not to dwell on thoughts leading to nowhere. He tips his hat to her and wanders over to the hitching posts.

Kieran scrambles to lead Rosie over, the kid averting his eyes to keep from drawing attention to himself. A habit Arthur understands, knows it himself, and hopes it will go away someday. Rosie’s coat shines in the sunlight from a fresh brushing, her saddle already strapped and adjusted, and Arthur does not think before he speaks. “Morning, O’Driscoll.”

The sour look on Kieran’s face is just what Arthur wanted to avoid, forgot, let his tongue slip into habit again. “I ain’t an O’Driscoll. Don’t know how many times I have to say it before you fellas believe me.” It is a mutter under his breath. Brave and stupid and fearful all at once.

Arthur hears it, the tone of it, and squares up on instinct, looks down his nose at the kid as if it is John mouthing off one more time. His glare earns hunching shoulders, eyes glancing around for an escape. Faster than a flash flood racing down a canyon, Kieran’s confidence is gone.

Such a quick retreat startles Arthur, used to John’s snarl and sharp retorting words, but he tries to hide it with a smirk and turning to pet Rosie’s forelock, the burst of white between her eyes that earned her name. He keeps his voice calm, as if he is speaking to a skittish colt. “I know, Duffy. Just messing with you. Get Old Boy tacked up too, would you?”

“R-Right away, Mr. Morgan.” Kieran scurries off. He nearly trips in his rush to get away.

Arthur kicks at the ground, sighs under his breath. He is not trying to scare the kid, honest, but it is hard to know what to say. Hard to remember he has only started being kind to Kieran for a week or more. One more change. Feels too easy to just be the sour bastard everyone knows him to be by now. But he supposes that is part of the change. Can’t act like the kid is an O'Driscoll now that he has stayed so long. Kieran is one of them, and Arthur needs to get used to that, sooner rather than later.

Rosie knickers and bites at his hat, draws him out of his brooding thoughts like she always does. “Good morning to you too, sweet girl. What do you say we get on John’s nerves today?” She tosses her head, and he pats her flank.

“Uncle Arthur!” Jack’s voice rushes up behind him, small and precious, and Arthur steels himself before he turns around. Begs his eyes to not be as sad as he feels. He hopes the violence of their lives, the running and the killing, never splatters on Jack. No more than it already has. Ain’t right to raise a kid like this, but he knows they all do the best they can for Jack.

John walks over, looking less murderous than Arthur fears. Jack trails behind him with a small smile on his face.

“Come on a ride with me, John.” Arthur steps aside and fishes around in Rosie’s saddle bag, not actually looking for anything. He keeps half an eye on John from under his downturned hat, watches to see if his brother will sneer and walk off.

“You found a job?” Angry scratches still mar John’s face, stitches too dark against yellow bruised skin, but they are healing.

“Maybe. Just need another set of eyes.” So many words unspoken, but he feels surprise at the calm beat of his heart, knows John will understand what he means, like a brother does.

“Alright.”

Arthur lets out a breath, knows this could still go so wrong. As he leads Rosie toward the trail, he wonders just how much he can change this. How much they can heal, how much he can heal them. Try as he might, no words seem enough. Even when he writes them out, pages torn from his journal and tossed into the fire, nothing he manages to scribble out feels like enough. To cover the hurt and the anger and the fear of losing his family.

John is his brother, has been since the first day Hosea dragged him into camp, a scrawny street rat with so much anger. Neither of them wanted to admit it, still don’t, but it is something Arthur has always felt, always known. As kids, butting heads was all they could do; had to impress Dutch and Hosea, earn their keep, keep up so the men they admired so much could not leave them behind. In all of that, dusty shooting practices and squabbling over campfires and who had to take first watch, John is his little brother. Dumb and dense and foolhardy as they come. But Arthur has had enough of letting John make mistakes. Had enough of making his own mistakes. If he wants to change before he dies, grudges should be the least of his worries.

_Have your own plan._

If he listens closely, Arthur can hear Old Man Cassidy laughing in the distance, dusty and ancient as the space between the sun and the earth.

“Run along, Jack. Go find your ma.” John's rasping voice tries to be cruel, the grate of sandstone clashing, but Arthur hears the reluctance, how it softens with fear when he climbs into Old Boy's saddle without looking at his son.

Jack stares up at Arthur, young eyes wide with confusion. “But…Uncle Arthur?” And he cannot let the kid wallow in the sadness of his father leaving him behind. Not today, not ever again, if Arthur has his way.

“Hold on, John. Forgot something.” Arthur grabs Jack underneath the arms and hoists him up to Old Boy's saddle. John sputters but hurries to grab hold of his son, as Arthur knew he would. Jack giggles at getting slung around like a sack of grain, as he always does. Old Boy stands as still as he ever does when Jack is around him, gentle giant that he is.

Arthur jumps up onto Rosie's saddle and grabs her reins, quick as he can. “C'mon let’s head into town. Bring little Jack with us and get some fresh air on his face.” He urges Rosie forward before John can get a word in, canters down the forest path and grins when he hears Old Boy’s heavy hooves following.

“Now you wait just a goddamned minute, Morgan.” After all these years, Arthur knows the sound of John’s true anger. It is a vicious, dusty sound. Blood caked with trail dust. This sound is not near ferocious enough.

“Calm down, Marston. Just heading into town for a while.” Arthur keeps his eyes forward, refuses to meet the gaze drilling into the back of his neck. “Morning, Miss Karen. Thanks for taking watch. We’ll be back in a while.”

Karen glances to him, genuine smile on her face, “Stay safe Arthur. Keep them out of trouble, Jack!” She calls after the trio. Arthur’s blood still boils at the sight of bruising around her mouth from where that man in Valentine punched her, but Arthur forces the red rage down. He already punched the man out, bloodied his face with a kick to the nose once he was on the floor. Hopes he caved in the bastard’s skull. Reminds himself anger will not do anyone any good right now.

“I will, Miss Karen.” Jack calls back, waving to her. John grumbles something under his breath, but Arthur is too far away to catch it.

They ride out of camp side-by-side, down through the poplars and to the dirt road leading along the railroad tracks. Skies stretch endless and blue above them. The wind is soft and gentle as the horses canter along. Arthur keeps an eye on John and Jack, knowing Marston is not quite so dumb as to say anything awful but not putting stupidity past him either.

John looks at Jack in fits and starts, as though the kid is something to be afraid of. Arthur has seen John dodge rain squalls of bullets, run through wildfires, scramble through knife fights, but nothing seems to terrify the man more than his own son.

And Jack, the kid the gang has raised him to be, ignores the tension as if he is on a con of his own. He is all bright eyes and smiles, chipper as a chipmunk, asking questions as they ride along. “Uncle Arthur, what bird is that?” Jack’s little hand points past Old Boy’s withers to the signpost leading them into Valentine. A small red bird flutters it’s wings in the morning sunshine.

“That’s a Cardinal. Their feathers are good for fletching arrows.” Charles drifts into Arthur’s thoughts with the words. His gloved hands grip at the leather of Rosie’s reins, remembers smoke and paper and _beautiful_. Maybe he should try to gather some feathers next time he hunts. Couldn’t hurt.

An animal skitters away in the brush at the side of the road. Gone too fast for Arthur to see, but Jack does. “Pa, what was that? Did you see it?” His voice is so small in the movement of the horses and the tension in his father’s shoulders.

John hesitates, glances to Arthur as if he will help. But at Arthur’s hard glare, John folds. “Looked like a badger.”

“Are they good for making anything?” Jack does not sound at all concerned with John’s discomfort, looking happy as can be to sit in the saddle in front of his father.

John coughs, clears his throat. “Can’t get much of a pelt off of them. And they’re mean besides. I’ve seen folks turn them into hats, though.”

Jack giggles, wind tinkling between icicles, “That would be a funny looking hat.”

“Suppose so.” John’s voice loses some of its edge, and Arthur feels his spine begin to relax.

He leads them down the trail and into Valentine. The town is a wall of sound and smell, of bleating and sheep manure. Electric wires crisscross the streets and Jack traces them with eager eyes. Passing the bank, Jack waves to a dog curled up on the boardwalk steps.

Arthur hitches Rosie outside the general store, dallies a moment to let John dismount from Old Boy first and lift Jack from the saddle. They climb the steps up to the storefront, Jack eager and John the opposite. Arthur holds the door for little Jack, gestures with his head for John to follow him.

John rolls his eyes, but follows his son, and Arthur wonders when this luck is going to run out.

In the mess of displays and boxes and bags, Jack looks so small. The shopkeeper calls out a greeting, and Jack approaches the counter on his own as if he has done all of this before. “Excuse me, mister?” Jack draws the shopkeeper’s attention and John takes the opportunity to grab at Arthur’s shirt sleeve.

“What in the hell are you trying to pull?” He keeps his voice low and at least Arthur can count on John having a few working gears in that skull of his.

Arthur knows this excuse may not work, may burn up around him, but he tries. “That boy Kieran gave me a lead on an O’Driscoll spot here in town. Said the stables is where they run stolen goods through here.” It is a lie, but the mention of O’Driscolls has John’s eyes narrowing, his spine straightening. “Now they might have moved it since he ran with them, hell after that cabin business they probably did. But I wanted to check it out. Knew I’d need backup with a good cover if I get caught.” John rolls his eyes but Arthur presses on, knows it is best to just dig the grave deeper rather than try to climb out, “You’re my spare gun. If this goes south, I need someone near who can handle himself.” Arthur keeps his hands on his belt buckle, tries to keep them steady on the metal.

“And how the hell do you expect me to pull your ass out of a fire if Jack is here?” John switches the target of his glare from Arthur to the shopkeeper ignoring Jack’s questions. The man is watching the altercation by the door and not paying Jack any attention. It makes Arthur’s fists itch, makes him wish Abigail would let them teach Jack a bit of pickpocketing.

Arthur looks away to the floorboards, tries to paint guilt thick enough on his face to hide the white lie. “Yeah I, uh, didn’t plan that part too well.”

John huffs a breath out through his nose, disbelief just thin enough to let Arthur off the hook, and glances back to Jack. The kid, too used to adults ignoring him, drifts to one of the store walls, looking up at a shelf of children’s books, high up on the wall and out of his reach. His small hands clench into fists.

Arthur sees the hesitation again, the flinch of John tamping down the instinct to walk over and lift Jack up so he can see the books, read the spines and choose one to take back with them. It is a twitch in his face, hands clenching to dig nails into his palms. The grimace set into his eyes and mouth softening. Turning his head away so his hat covers his eyes.

Arthur rushes through the rest, wants John to move already. Feels the same urge to lift Jack up and knows he should not. Not his place. “Look. You two just stay in here while I go ask around. Jack said something about buying something for Abigail. Help him with that and if I’m not back by the time you’re done-,”

“Ride back and tell Hosea you ran off to join the circus. I know, I know.” John is shaking his head, voice quiet, but he drops his protests. “If you ain’t back by half past, I’m riding out of town and ain’t looking back.”

The words, the habit, the gut reaction of _You a__lready did it once. You want to try again?_ Rise up in Arthur’s throat. He buries them as best he can. Even if he means to change, that does not make the acid burn any less.

Heaves a deep breath, “Just help Jack find something. I’ll be back. Don’t say anything stupid. If you’re even capable of that.”

John frowns at him, ruffled feathers, “Don’t know why you had to bring the kid with us, then.”

Arthur feels the embers lighting between his shoulder blades, an urge to punch John out and make him see sense. He bares his teeth, sneers as ugly as he knows how, “I brought him because he asked me. More than he’d ask of you, I’m sure.” The look of shame on John’s face lasts just a moment, the hint of a fox fleeing through undergrowth. A flash of red as surprising as it is fleeting. Buried under a desperate sort of scowl, a hidden flinch of shoulders, Arthur knows too well after years of this squabble. “He don’t deserve how you been acting, John. And you aren’t as cruel as all of that. I know you aren’t.”

Something passes over John’s face, not annoyance or anger, but something close enough to guilt for Arthur to lean back.

The anger paws at the edge of his voice, wants to get in, but he swallows it down. Calls out to Jack, looking at a tower of canned pineapple as if he can ignore just about anything if he tries hard enough. “Keep your old man out of trouble for me, Jack. I’ll be right back.”

The kid’s reply sounds stilted, nervous, without the cheery confidence he knows Jack is capable of. “Okay Uncle Arthur.”

Arthur leaves them in the dusty sunlight of the general store windows. He wanders to the stable, buys a newspaper at the corner, reminds his heart to calm down. The owner of the stable is happy to talk about the horses they have at the stable, what they have available if Arthur is looking to buy. A sleek appaloosa and a Fox Trotter worth more money than Arthur has seen in a long while. But with no intention of parting with Rosie, it makes for a good way to kill time. He checks his pocket watch too often, looks out the big barn doors toward the general store to see if Old Boy still stands outside the store. If John decides to turn tail and run from this, Arthur is not sure what he is meant to do. Change is good and all, but he is learning it is so much harder to change others rather than himself.

On his way back to the store, he passes the skeleton of a building still under construction, a donation stand sitting outside of it, where that fellar Downes heckles passerby into giving money to the poor. Arthur feels a bubble of shame in his stomach at the thought. Ain’t never been a saint himself, shouldn’t judge others for trying. Downes was only trying to help end that Saloon fight, shouldn’t think of him like he was in the wrong. Downes would probably be better at _change_ than Arthur, that’s for sure.

A woman stands at the table today, maybe Downes’ wife maybe not, and she calls out to the crowds with just as much energy. “Help those in need! Money, clothes, food, anything helps! Give to the poor.” In a town like this it is a call falling on deaf ears stuffed with leftover sheep wool and the hunger of a just ending winter.

Arthur feels his steps slow, not in control of much. Mud squelches under his boots. His hand drifts to the strap of his satchel, fingers rubbing at a smooth bit of leather close to his chest. Remembers the last time he gave away money and look how he paid for it. _I can see it. Your future. You’re going to die._ Now the future spins away from him and his dreams are haunted, and he cannot look Dutch in the eye for fear of what he might see.

Or maybe there is a better way of looking at it. Giving away money like they used to has not happened in a lot of years. Dutch always talks about how big the gang is now, how much it takes to keep them afloat, how every penny counts. But Arthur remembers the early days. The days when they gave as much as they took, did not pass by a person in need without offering something. Something.

He walks over to the table, digs into his satchel, pulls out a five-dollar bill and drops it into the box. His spine shivers at the memory of Cassidy and that damn gold coin that started too much of this.

There is a pause, most likely the woman realizing Arthur does not in fact intend to rob her. “Very generous of you, sir. Thank you! Bless you.” Her words, too soft, like feather grass stalks, trail after Arthur’s shoulders and he tries to shrug them off without looking like a complete basket case. That money fixes nothing. It will help someone, maybe, probably, but that is so far apart from Arthur. Wonders if it counts as _change_ when it isn’t for the sake of someone in the gang. A breeze, a reminder of where he is, and he lets the wind take his thoughts away. Circling around and around will do no good, not for him, not for anyone else.

The general store still stands when Arthur walks up the steps. A final shudder running over his shoulders as he lumbers through the door.

“…- be really careful, Pa.” Jack’s voice, so confident in some moments. Such a smart kid; knows just when he can get away with things.

John looks up when the bell jingles above the door, relaxes a fraction. Still looks something between pathetic and miserable. He is kneeling down beside Jack, holding out an empty paper bag for Jack to pour a scoop of penny candy into.

Arthur looks, watches a moment as Jack sticks his tongue out of the corner of his mouth in concentration, remembers John used to do the same when he was a kid, and walks up to the shopkeeper; if he draws attention to the little moment he is sure John will find a way to ruin it. “You got any tents?” The man points to a corner with tents and bedrolls piled in a box.

“You got one though.” John mutters, not looking away as Jack pours the candy precise and careful and slow.

Arthur digs through the box, finds one made of decent canvas with only a patch or two. “Yeah but it got a hole in it a while back. Leaks like a faucet now.” Arthur is full of so many lies today. Hosea will be so cross with him if he finds out.

The general store survives their visit. Arthur has a tent under his arm, holds the door for little Jack. The boy is holding a small box in his hands, fingers desperate and careful, holding on with everything he has. John follows him with a bag of candy in his hands, unfurling the crinkling paper to grab a sweet before mounting up on Old Boy.

Jack hesitates beside Old Boy, holds the little box close to his chest before raising an arm up to be lifted into the saddle. Arthur busies himself with strapping the new tent to Rosie’s saddle. Nearly misses the “It’s alright, Jack. I got it,” as John lifts him up.

* * *

They ride back to camp and Jack chatters. He asks what kind of horses Arthur saw at the stable and was there a red one like Rosie cause Jack sure likes her she is very pretty but not as pretty as the Count even though he is a very mean horse and will not let Jack get close to him. Jack cradles the little box the whole ride, and when Arthur asks, “What’d you get?”

“Uncle Arthur it’s a surprise! Right, Pa?” Jack’s little face looks so affronted, and he turns to look up at John.

The clopping of horse hooves nearly covers the “Right.” John lets out.

They return to camp, calling a greeting to Javier on afternoon watch. Arthur dismounts, gives a nod to Kieran when the man rushes over to take the reins. He freezes, nearly stumbles in his rush to nod back.

Arthur rolls his eyes and busies himself with unstrapping the new tent. He hears John jump down, lift Jack down, and the moment the boy’s boots hit the mud he is grabbing his father’s hand, clutching the box and dragging, “C’mon we gotta go show her!”

Arthur sees the tether about to break, the end of John’s rope for the day. But Arthur glares after him, tries to make it as ugly as he can. John ducks his head and follows. They disappear in the mess of tents, and Arthur watches for a moment. A sad knot forms at the bottom of his throat.

“You got her, Mr. Morgan? Kieran asks from behind him, and Arthur turns with the tent under his arm. Suppose he ought to get this out of the way.

“Sure. Here, Duffy. We been getting some pretty bad storms last few nights.” Arthur passes the tent over with the lie, nearly drops it when Kieran hesitates to grab it alongside Old Boy's reins.

Kieran stands in stunned silence, looks scared out of his skin, but he breathes in and some of that tension leaves. “Th-th-thank you. Th-thank you, Mr. Morgan. I-,” Kieran's words start skittering, loose pebbles crackling together.

“Now now, none of that. Ain’t nothing.” Arthur ducks his head and leaves Rosie to guzzle water from the trough, leaves Kieran to sort through his words. If he stands there much longer, the anxious itch around his neck will win out.

When he turns to the camp, he sees Dutch standing at the entrance of his tent, arms crossed and spine straight. He watches John and Jack as they walk through camp, toward Abigail. His eyes look wistful for a moment, a breath of apple blossoms on spring air, a memory Arthur is not sure is real.

“That was very kind of you, Arthur.” Tilly steps out of the shadows of one of the tents, and Arthur fights a flinch. He looks away from Dutch, away from shining buttons and a man he hopes he still knows. Thought he knew.

“Ah, ain’t nothing.” The unease, _the devil_, roils in his stomach, feels like he ate something bad.

“You’ve been really nice to him. Do you think what he says is true?”

Arthur shakes his head a bit to clear it, reminds himself to not bring Tilly down with all his brooding. She is talking about Kieran and Arthur needs to stop worrying about Dutch. “That he ain’t an O’Driscoll? Ah that boy couldn’t scare fuzz off a rabbit. He’s harmless.”

Tilly’s eyes, so watchful and strong, squint at him before she tilts her head with a guarded sort of smile. “High praise from a man like you.” She walks off toward the main campfire, where Mary-Beth and Karen are sipping at mugs of tea in the afternoon quiet.

Arthur breathes out, looks to the cloud front rolling in from the lake. Might rain tonight. If the Dakota floods again, could do a bit of robbing up near the river crossing. Could take Javier, maybe Sean. He watches John walk across camp, stride hurried and head down, Jack no where in sight. What,

“Arthur.” Abigail’s voice. Too close and too subdued to be anything but anger. He turns, and she is stalking up to him, her nose scrunched with an ire Arthur knows he deserves, even if he is unsure why for this time. His legs brace for a slap to the face that does not come.

“Why’d you have to go and do that, Arthur? Ain’t it enough the boy can’t rely on his father for a damn thing? Now you give him hope and expect it’ll be fine?” Her words are so bitter, so close to tears, so quiet. A silver necklace sits around her neck now, glinting in the sun, a lone teardrop on a delicate chain. Somewhere deep in Arthur’s head, he knows John was the one to pick it out. Jack likes gold, the gleam and shine of it, has ever since he was a baby, would babble and grab at Dutch's pocket watch whenever the man held him. John would have been the one to know Abigail would want something calmer than all of that.

“Woah, now Abigail. I just-,” It is not enough, he knows it, hears it in his own voice.

“You don’t know nothing about this, Arthur Morgan.” Abigail’s eyes, so pretty and blue and kind, are flinty now. They glare into him. And he sees it. He sees the fear and the pain and the worry that all of this will be taken from her son. The easy afternoon with his father will be the last one, that this time in the sunshine will be nothing more than a memory for Jack to look back on with an awful sort of mourning. A day like today may mean the world to Jack, but at the end of it John is still walking off, and nothing is fixed. Abigail sighs, wind out of her sails, her mouth frowning. "Thank you, Arthur for...for taking him to town. I...I do appreciate what you're trying to do."

Arthur barely hears her, the kindness filtering back into her voice. Such a forgiving woman, so patient with fools. But he doesn't deserve that because he sees his blunder for what it is and he feels the air leave his lungs. An apology on his lips with nothing left to voice it. Feels so stupid. So stupid for thinking he could make this change. For thinking he could fix so much with so little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: I fell in love with John Marston back in 2010. 9 years later and he’s still the same dumbass.


	11. Saloon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm taking some liberties with the canon, but that is the nature of a fix-it. Hopefully it all works out in the end.

Arthur spends his time sketching in his journal – a robin, the pale hide of Kieran’s horse, a clump of Black-Eyed Susans growing green behind the chicken coop, the silhouette of Mrs. Adler sitting close to the cliff edge – and he cannot find it in himself to feel guilt over it, over spending his time capturing little things. He could. Could linger on how Javier and Bill and Sean went out robbing at the river crossing today. Or, Bill wanted to go robbing, Javier was bored and went with, Sean just followed them and talked his way into going. Always following, that kid does. No need for another man along for the ride, so Arthur waved them out and threw an insult after Bill for good measure.

Charles left long before them; bow slung across his back. Off to check his snare line in the neighboring forest and the early morning mist. He had a questioning look on his face when he spotted Arthur close to the entrance to camp, sitting under one of the oak trees there before the camp is even properly awake, but Arthur waved him off. The man watched him a moment too long but nodded, settled, and rode out of camp. Charles has things to do today, should not waste time bothering with Arthur. Was kind enough to bother last time.

Could linger on Charles, knows he shouldn’t. So much to do but Arthur sits where he is. Watches the sun float on its merry way across the sky. His drawing glares up at him. Robins look like such angry little birds. Never noticed before.

But the day is winding down and he ought to do something with himself. Don’t feel like leaving camp; wouldn’t do any good anyway. Could ask Pearson if he needs help with supper, maybe try and mend that wheel on the chicken coop that has been wobbling. Never was much good at fixing things but he can try. Better than Hosea taking it into his head that he’s good with a hammer and nails again. Was awful enough the last time.

Arthur tucks his journal away into his satchel and stands up. Stretches out his back. The sun is finally turning toward summer, bringing some warmth to the air. Flowers are close to blooming, trees filling out with leaves. Time passing by, but in a good way, he supposes. He walks back through camp, nods to Miss Grimshaw, skirts past Dutch’s tent.

“Arthur!” Dutch’s voice calls out, happy, full of energy and something Arthur misses. Happier times. Feels the ache of its memory in his chest. He stops, turns, and walks into the shelter of Dutch’s tent, rough canvas and a shining gramophone Arthur finds so much comfort in.

“Dutch…Miss O’Shea.” Arthur only looks to Molly when he says it, cannot look Dutch in the eye, too scared to, yet reminds himself to be polite; ain’t Molly’s fault Dutch has been acting strange enough to set Arthur’s nerves on fire.

Molly glances up from her embroidery and nods to him, green eyes as cool as they ever are. Looks over to Dutch as he stands and sets his book aside. He walks up to Arthur at the mouth of the tent, and Arthur forces himself to stand still, to not flinch. To not feel like a cowering dog in fear of being kicked.

“Feels like we are finally getting back on our feet.” Dutch says with a smile, hands on his hips and teeth shining white as pearls.

Arthur ignores them and looks to the floor. Tries to think of something that will not start anything. “Any headway on those bonds we stole?” If he keeps the talk to business, he might be alright. Might not feel like his insides are trying to claw their way out.

“Not yet. Hosea should have a lead soon.”

Jack runs headlong past, chasing a dragonfly. His pants flap around his legs, hand-me-downs still too big for him. Arthur’s guilt from the other day rises up to swallow him and he coughs to try and stop thinking. “And what about that plan to move west?” Arthur says it and regrets it in the next moment, knows the answer he will get. Stares at the wooden boards and thinks. Thinks no one else in camp has a tent with a floor. Except Dutch. Never wondered why.

“Soon…I don’t know.” Dutch falters and looks out over the camp for lack of anything else. The man looks to be out of words, and Arthur sees another cliff to jump off of. Might as well jump. Wonders when he will start caring about Dutch's words again. Thinks there is no going back from _“Turn me in to the bounty hunters and hang up your hat?”_

“Soon ain’t gonna be good enough if…What I said before…I meant it, Dutch. We are being hunted. Pinkertons never used to bother us this bad. The world is changing, and it don’t want folk like us no more. Need to get out of here before something awful happens.” His nightmares echo in his mind, knows it makes his words echo but he cannot help but repeat himself. Screams and cries and regrets. Not that Dutch can hear them.

A flare of nostrils, Dutch’s anger, but Arthur keeps his head high, does not bow like he once would have. Too much at stake for that. Too protective of the thought that he can save his family if he just tries, just pushes. That little sprout of hope sitting under his lungs. Makes his throat burn and his fingernails itch but that is alright.

“We are smarter than them.” Even the aggression in Dutch’s voice cannot hide his uncertainty. “Only the feeblest of men take jobs in the government.”

Arthur scoffs under his breath. Wonders if he would have fallen for a line like that back before _You will fight for them. Or they will die._

Molly’s hands still on her stitching, the lack of motion catching Arthur’s attention. She must be listening, must see the tension between the two of them, so she pipes up, “Trust Dutch, Mr. Morgan. You have to.” Her tone of voice is not cruel, just indifferently kind, but Arthur feels a punch to the stomach at the words. When he meets her eyes, he catches the flash of shock over her features, the surprise she hides under her freckles. Must have seen the worry in his eyes, the distrust and the hurt he is trying to bury.

_‘Have to’. Sure._

There is a shout from the forest, John standing on watch, and a few moments later a horse races up the path leading to camp. “Dutch!” Lenny comes barreling through the trees. Maggie’s hide shining with sweat and the mare seems to run out of steam close to the hitching posts, tossing her head and breathing in huge, rushing gulps. Lenny drops down from the saddle, stumbles, and Arthur is moving. He runs forward and catches Lenny’s shoulder right as he stumbles toward them. The young man’s eyes are wide as dinner plates, and his weight hits Arthur’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Arthur!” Lenny’s legs must give out, because Arthur takes on the man’s full weight and keeps him standing.

“Calm down, Lenny. You’re alright.” Arthur keeps Lenny upright, lets him get his feet back under him.

“Lenny! What happened son?” Dutch walks over. Molly follows after him, faster steps, shawl tucked around her and worry in the creases around her eyes.

Lenny’s lungs heave. He opens his mouth to speak, tries, gulps more air. His hands shake where they grip at Arthur’s coat. “Lenny. Catch your breath.” Arthur murmurs and keeps an eye on the trees, waits for cavalry to come charging into camp. His blood races with liquid fire and _save them_.

“Take your time, son. Just explain what happened. Where’s Micah?” Dutch prompts.

“They-they got him! He’s been arrested for murder.” Lenny gasps, hand at his chest, at his throat.

The trees and brush rustles as John runs up, rifle in hand. Looks as confused as he ever does. “You alright, Lenny?”

“No one following?” Arthur asks, lets Lenny go when he pats at Arthur’s hand.

“Nah. He just flew past me like a bat out of hell. Wasn’t sure if he was alright.” John shrugs, stares at Lenny a few moments more before nodding to Arthur and walking back to his post. Arthur nods after him and turns at the sound of Lenny’s voice.

“They nearly lynched me.” Lenny stands hunched over, hands on his knees and still out of breath.

Arthur turns his face away for a moment and lets it morph with whatever reddish haze of rage takes him over in that moment. It curls around his heart and gushes out of his mouth like a steam geyser. Makes him want to ride out and kill whoever dared try.

But he turns back, covers the rage and saves it for another time. Lenny is safe, now. Lenny is talking; Lenny is fine. _Save them_. “They got Micah in the sheriff’s at Strawberry. And there was talk of hanging him.”

“Here’s hoping.” It leaps from Arthur’s mouth before he can think, said to the dirt without purpose, and he finds himself not caring in the least.

“Arthur.” Dutch’s voice sounds like the clang of a pickaxe on stone, so final, so disappointed. When Arthur looks up at him, Dutch is scowling.

“You know my feelings about him, Dutch.” Awful, writhing, smoky feelings. A feeling he cannot grasp ahold of but knows without a doubt is the illness of misplaced trust. Something is not right about Bell, and Arthur has known that from the start. Was just never sure what it was, how to say it. Still not sure.

“You think I can’t see past his bluster to the heart inside? He is a fine man.” Dutch says it as though it is true. As if Arthur should, must, believe him.

Arthur thinks back to Micah’s truly callous jibes, how he picks a fight with anyone he can find. How he calls Lenny, Tilly, _Charles_, disgusting, awful things under his breath. The glint in Micah’s eyes, the gleam of his smiling teeth, as he rounded that table to lunge for Sadie back in that snowy cabin. Arthur is not sure he wants to see what sort of heart Dutch can find in a bastard like that.

“I am not going after him, Dutch.”

Molly pats Lenny on the arm, something warmer in her face than just a few moments ago, and then she walks back to Dutch’s tent. Lenny nods after her, seems to remember the near faint he was in when he arrived, and stumbles to a chair to sit down.

Dutch’s face starts to turn red. Blood rushing, anger rising. “I can’t go. My face is gonna be on every wanted poster in West Elizabeth. I am simply asking. Asking you to go and save a man who made a mistake and should not be sentenced to death for it.” Dutch says it in a calm, aggressive tone Arthur is starting to like less and less. Not as if Arthur’s own face will not be plastered over those same sheriffs office notice boards.

“He wouldn’t. And you know it.” Dutch does not have a retort ready, an assurance, just a scoff, and Arthur glares into the shadow of the tent, feels something squirm around in his guts. Wants to look up and meet Dutch’s eye and not fear what he will find. “Fine, I’ll look into it later.” Dutch huffs under his breathe but Arthur ignores him. It is getting easier to.

“You okay, Lenny?” Arthur walks over to Lenny, keeping an eye on the young man’s breathing.

“Yeah. Yeah of course I am.”

“No, you’re not.” Arthur says it quietly, just enough for Lenny to hear, and the wide-eyed look is all he needs to know Lenny is far from ‘okay’.

“Take that kid into town. Valentine, not Strawberry. Get him good and drunk.” Dutch calls over to them. As if that is the solution. As if that will fix the panic in Lenny’s eyes. As if he is a child who needs distracting.

“Dutch, I don’t think he needs-,” Arthur starts.

“Arthur. I said take him into town.” Dutch’s eyes flicker to the edges of camp, where Karen, Tilly, Pearson, are all looking over to see what is going on. This family has never been subtle when it comes to eavesdropping.

Arthur wants to fight, argue and holler, but his throat feels so dry. He wants a drink to drown himself in. Might shut up the fortune rolling around in his head for once. _Change_. But he cannot change Dutch he cannot change John he cannot change himself. The thoughts repeat and the thoughts repeat and circle his head like a vulture circles carrion.

“And Arthur, you get Micah out of that-,” Dutch starts, and Arthur turns to him, spreads his arms wide like he has seen Dutch do countless times.

“Can’t just drop everything, Dutch.” Lenny looks up at him, but Arthur keeps on talking, “I ain’t gonna put that bastard above Lenny. Ain’t no way I’m gonna. I’ll go sort out this Micah business later.”

“Arthur-,”

“I’m doing it for you, Dutch. Not for him. Later.” Arthur stares him down, for the first time in years, has not felt this unruly since he was a boy, a young kid with too much to prove. With nothing to his name but stupid pride. Now he is older, wiser, and in this moment, he feels the clawing feeling of thinking Dutch’s anger is not worth bowing down to.

But the air feels so charged, a lightning storm he knows he cannot fight his way through, so he turns away. “C’mon, Lenny. Lets get you out of here for a while.”

* * *

Arthur worries the air will sit strange and unfamiliar between Lenny and him. But a quick passing of reins from Kieran, a wave to John standing watch, and they are riding off down the trail to Valentine, a worn dirt track becoming so very familiar. They plod along at the pace their horses set. No hurry, no rush. The camp is only just behind them when Lenny clears his throat, still unsteady.

“Thanks, Arthur. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like that.” Lenny says, hands holding Old Belle’s reins, a loan from Karen while Maggie rests. But his grip is too tight for the gentle walk they are at.

Fear leaps into Arthur’s throat, the worry that people will start seeing him as a mean bastard for arguing with Dutch. It makes sense, and he is a mean bastard, but he does not want that changing how folks look at him. “Ah. Don’t know about that.”

“Well. I appreciate it all the same. I’ll admit I’m…I’m still shaken up and I don’t exactly like the idea of just sitting in camp.” Lenny’s brow furrows, mouth opening and closing a few times in a search for words.

Arthur nods along, looks away from Lenny to give the man at least a hint of privacy. Plains grass waves around them, rabbits darting between clumps, in and out of burrows. Crickets lingering on stalks of red yarrow blooms as the sun sinks down.

“I only just got away…If they’d have been just a bit faster…” Arthur breaks his stare with the horizon and looks back to Lenny, sees the shake in the young man’s hands and how his eyes are too wide, the panic of prey still being chased. Death glancing too close and only just escaping it.

“Lenny. You are alright. You got away. You survived. We’re gonna get a couple of drinks and forget all about them, and Micah, for a while.” He knows it is not enough, but he doesn’t know the right words; he has no hope of knowing such a fear as what Lenny must have felt, chased like an animal, but,

“Yeah…alright.” Lenny’s voice is not as strong as Arthur wishes it was.

He tosses his head around a bit, looks to the nearby buttes and back again, to Lenny's bright orange bandana set ablaze in the fading sunlight. “Or…we get a drink and sit in a corner for a while. Watch other people make fools of themselves.”

Lenny laughs, a small choked thing. “Sure. Besides, Hosea made me promise after the last time to keep you from drinking.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, because of course Hosea would. “That old man needs to mind his own business.”

Lenny next laugh is not so overcome, and that will have to be enough. “I’m beat.” He puffs out after a few minutes of silence. His shoulders bow forward with a heavy sigh.

“You rode all the way back from Strawberry like that. Of course you’re beat. What did Micah even have planned?” Arthur lets himself ask. He is trying to avoid thinking of Micah, trying to avoid him at all, but maybe talking it through will help Lenny.

“He wouldn’t tell me. You know how he is. ‘You worry too much, kid’ or “Just some business to attend to, boy’. Drove me up the wall. Wanted to leave him there.”

Arthur huffs. “You should have.” The livestock pens are growing closer and Arthur feels his stomach flip at the thought of being in town and around so many people.

“And it was like the strike of a match. Everything happened so quick.” Lenny says it to the air, to the sunset, not to Arthur. A murmur under his breath as he tries to understand how his day unraveled.

“Well. You’re okay now, Lenny. Don’t need to worry your head over a bastard like that.” Their horses clop over the railroad tracks and Lenny looks over at him with a small smile, nods, though his forehead still carries the wrinkles of a troubled mind.

Arthur hopes it is alright. He hopes that anything he is saying helps Lenny, helps him out of whatever terror Micah dragged him into.

* * *

With the swing of saloon doors, a wave of noise and the stink of stale beer washes over them. Arthur feels his age catching up to him as his boots creak across the old wood floor; used to like going out for drinks, never felt like such a hassle before. So many people and so much noise and his head already hurts. Makes him want to start drinking, order a whiskey and not stop because maybe a drink will make everything clear.

But he is here for Lenny, not himself. Has to keep reminding himself. They find a spot at the bar counter and he waves the barkeep down. “Can we get two beers, please?” Arthur tosses a pair of coins on the bar, waits for the inevitable as the barkeep turns and notices his face.

The color drains from the man’s face and he takes a few steps back from the bar, “You. I don’t want no trouble.”

“Didn’t make trouble the last time. I was only defending myself.” The excuse is hollow, but the clink of coin is enough to get the bartender to set a pair of bottles on the counter. He walks off to serve someone else, peeking glances over his shoulder. Arthur rolls his eyes.

“A fight?” Lenny whispers into the lip of his beer bottle.

“Ain’t nothing to worry about. We kept it clean.” Arthur mumbles back, looks down to the bar counter so his hat covers his face.

Lenny snorts under his breath and Arthur smiles despite himself. “Whatever you say, Arthur.” They each take a sip, and Lenny stares straight ahead when he says, voice flat now, “Micah seemed to know a lot of people in that town…that was the problem of it.”

Arthur sips at his beer, tries to seem unaffected by what Lenny says. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…Micah just… I mean I seen a lot of crazy, crazy things, but-” A drunk man walks up to the bar, leans on Arthur’s shoulder in a sudden dead weight that has his hand itching to grab the pistol hanging at this belt. It feels like enough to spark his temper, dry grass and his nerves singed and smoldering as they are.

But Lenny is right next to him. A young man only just escaping the worst death Arthur could possibly imagine. Don’t need another fight. Not now, should be better than that. He forces himself to push the drunk man away as gentle as he can. “C’mon, Lenny. Let’s sit over there a spell. Airs getting a little heavy.”

Lenny nods too fast. They grab their beers and migrate to an empty table in a corner, close to the back door. It sits underneath the upper balcony and Arthur feels his spine relax a touch at the more defensible spot.

Lenny’s leg jitters underneath the table, and Arthur knows he should not ask, should not draw attention. For his own sake, for Lenny’s. “You alright, Lenny?”

“I…No…No I ain’t alright.” Lenny huffs under his breath, seeming more frustrated than afraid. Arthur lets him have some air, gulps and sighs that are slowing the longer they sit here. The jaunty tune of the piano, shouts of a poker game in the front window, “Micah knew the man he shot, knew him the moment he stepped through the door. Kept his head down, kept drinking, told me to not mind any of it…And I heard him say something when he shot that fella. Heard something real bad.”

Lenny looks at the table, stares into the wood grain with its stains and pockmarks, and Arthur’s mind starts to tumble. “What kind of bad?”

“He…he said he knew Micah from _before_. Whatever that means. Said he’d been expecting him a lot sooner. That someone had a job for him soon.” Lenny says all of this to his beer bottle, eyes steadfast.

Arthur nods along, “Ain’t too strange. Some of us know some strange people to get informat-,”

“Arthur that fella was a lawman. I could tell. He had the voice, the clothes, the…” Lenny pauses, glances to Arthur, eyes wide and skittish, “I just know he was. And he acted like he knew Micah. And Micah didn’t want him talking. Didn’t want me knowing.”

It settles on the table between them. This little secret they share now. As little as the bear he helped Hosea shoot down a few weeks back. Pearson is still working on cleaning and tanning the pelt. A thousand-pound bear means a lot of pelt, a lot of fur. It will make for a good blanket. Arthur plans on insisting Hosea take it for his tent; old man deserves something warm after the hell of a winter they experienced in the mountains.

Lenny sits too tense beside him, a jammed rifle ready to go off in the silence. He is holding his bottle in too tight hands, looks as though he is trying to crush the glass.

Arthur sees Lenny's nerves for what they are, now. Not the leftover fear of being chased out of town by a mob, but the fear of Arthur laughing his concerns away. Of bringing this forward and being seen as a betrayer himself. The fear of saying something and not being heard. He scrambles to say something, does not know what to think, “Well that’s…that sure is something.” He bites his tongue. Stupid. Ought to know what to say. But he doesn’t.

Lenny laughs, a sound anxious and full of strain. “You think so? Because I’m still not sure what to think.”

“I believe you Lenny. Know you ain’t lying. Just not sure what to think of it is all.”

Everything in Lenny’s frame lets go, his shoulders slouching and his spine curling down and his head nearly striking the table. “Thank you, Arthur. I was afraid you’d say I was crazy. Or that I was trying to sabotage him, or-,”

“Know you wouldn’t do that, Lenny. Your loyalty to the gang ain’t what I’m wondering about right now.” Arthur bites at his lip, knows he shouldn’t. Lenny might be young, and he has only run with them going on a year or two now, but he would not. Would not. _Betrayed by those you trust most._

This isn’t good. Talking with the law is one thing – Arthur has spoken to his fair share of sheriffs and the like to hunt down bounties – but something in his gut turns over at the idea of Micah trying to hide it. Trying to hide something. His muscles and his blood and his teeth throb at the heaviness of such a thing.

“I just…” Lenny wrestles with it, like trying to grab a trout in a too fast stream, “I just don’t trust him. It ain’t just that he’s a racist bastard. It’s…something in the way he acted. Anyone else and I’d trust them to have a reason for it but…He acted like he’d been caught red-handed. I don’t know.” Lenny ducks his head down, as if he fears a scolding.

Arthur hums under his breath, does not dare look away from Lenny for even a moment. “What do you really think, Lenny?”

Lenny looks up and then back down into his beer bottle, nearly empty now, too quick, too fearful. “I mean, I ain’t trying to start trouble or nothing. I just-,”

“Lenny. I understand. Something about him don’t sit right with me neither.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. If what you’re saying is true, then it might be worse than I thought.” Arthur wrestles with it and feels his mind running with too many thoughts.

“Micah didn’t say nothing to him, but when he walked over to us, Micah got all tense and shot him after he started talking. Then the law got involved and I had to run and…I don’t know anymore. Every time I think of it, I worry I’m remembering it wrong.” Lenny taps his nails against the side of his glass, fidgeting.

Arthur feels the same feeling in his bones and heaves himself up to standing. Nothing good will come of sitting in this bar and running around in circles. No good will come of getting piss drunk like he so, so wants to. “Let’s head back. You need some sleep after the day you’ve had.”

* * *

They ride back to camp in silence.

Night sits around them as calm as anything, the moon guiding their path down the dirt track leading out of town.

Arthur sits in Rosie’s saddle and chews on this new information, this new piece of a puzzle he never knew existed. He has never liked Bell, sure, but that does not mean he wants to jump on the hint of the man betraying them. Even a snake like Micah would not stoop so low. At least Arthur hopes so. It would mean so many things. So much for Arthur to deal with when his shoulders already feel heavy, his head bogged down with so much swirling muck, _betrayal _and _change_ spinning around in his skull.

Close to the path leading up to camp, Lenny pulls on Old Belle’s reins, stops her just short of the patch of trees they call home. Rosie stops alongside them and Arthur braces himself. For what he is not sure.

“You think he’s a rat?”

Arthur opens his mouth to say ‘no’, feels the tug of the instinct to not doubt his fellow outlaws, the instinct of knowing Dutch would never bring someone like that in with them. But he hesitates.

_If you continue down the path of the devil, he will take everything from you._

Arthur has never hesitated like this, in trusting Dutch and the man’s decisions. It feels wrong. Feels like the same wrongness he felt when Cassidy said a handful of words that turned his life on its head.

“I don’t know. I know you're telling me the truth. But...I hope you're wrong.” And with that he needs to be away from camp. Needs to ride out to that little timber town and find Micah and figure out what the hell is going on. To hell with sleeping. Enough with worrying and hesitating and not knowing how all of this is going to go. He needs to do something. “Go on, Lenny. I’m gonna head up to Strawberry.”

“I’ll come with you.”

It hurts to hear Lenny sound so eager, so ready to help. Always is. “Best you don’t. Need to deal with this myself. And don’t mention none of what we talked about to anyone. Not just yet. Gonna see what I can dig up in town before I break that bastard out.”

“If you’re sure.” Lenny hesitates, “And, Arthur…Thank you. For tonight. Feel a lot better now. Was real worried about saying anything.”

“Took guts to say it, Lenny. Thank you. Now get yourself up to camp and settle for the day. You been through enough.” Lenny nods, unease disipated like early morning mist burnt in beams of sunlight. He sits tall in his saddle, nods, and heads into camp.

Arthur waits until he sees Lenny ride past the camp boundaries, dismounts in the low glow of a lantern set at the hitching posts. Waits until the crickets fill in the air around him and the wind rushes past. He wheels Rosie around, heading down the hill toward the Dakota river. Finding a place to cross might be difficult, but he is intent on getting to Strawberry before the night gets too old.

None of it sits right, something unsettled and wrong. A sprained ankle given too much pressure. He does not want to think the worst of this, spiral down into the dark like he has been, but he has found no reason to trust Micah since the first day Dutch dragged him into camp. And with every day that passes, Arthur finds himself questioning Dutch so much he feels ill with it.

Maybe it is nothing. Maybe it is something. He urges Rosie faster and rides along the river, hoping the moonlight is enough to let him see through all of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: The canon version of this mission is the best one in the game. Hands down. Don’t even try to argue.


	12. Letters

Micah’s return to camp is a loud thing no one enjoys. He crows to the early morning sky of how the brave Mister Morgan broke him from jail at dawn without a shot fired, robbing the sheriff's office blind in the process. It is all a show to draw attention as he places money into the camp funds box, scribbling into the ledger. Arthur walks from the hitching posts to Pearson’s wagon, his steps heavy as if it takes too much for him to remain standing.

Charles sits at the fire with John and Hosea, the three of them sharing a sad sigh knowing the relative peace of camp is now a lost cause with Micah back. For a few days it had been alright. The man’s voice alone turns Charles’ stomach, and he knows it will be back to walking on eggshells whenever he is in camp.

The flames crackle, warmth in the morning chill, Hosea’s fingernails tap against the log he sits on. Arthur walks over to them, a tin cup in his hands and Micah following after him. “Again, Mister Morgan, I cannot thank you enough for breaking me out of there. For getting my guns back. If there is any way I can repay you, brother-,” Micah’s voice is a sneer, gross smiling teeth too close to Arthur’s turned back. He places a hand on Arthur’s shoulder that he immediately shoves away.

“You are not my brother.” Arthur barks it, hard as the crack of rocks in a landslide.

John flinches, tries to play it off as burning his tongue on too hot coffee. The hand falls away, Micah huffs. He leans his weight back on his heels, looks close to saying something, and growls as he stalks off.

Arthur settles onto the log beside Hosea, pouring himself a cup of coffee and mumbles into the rising steam, “Last time I ever help that mean bastard.”

Hosea chuckles and knocks his knee against Arthur’s. The touch brings a smile to both of them and John’s shoulders lose some of their tension. “Dutch said something about looking for you, son. Didn’t sound important, but…” Hosea huffs a laugh to himself and rolls his eyes. Arthur grunts and stays still. He takes his hat and sets it aside, running a hand through his hair to muss it into shining with sunlight. The silence settles into the sooty ground beneath their boots and the flames speak while they do not.

Charles watches Arthur more than he probably should. It is something he is not always conscious of, but his eyes wander. He is only human. And in the early morning with all of them still half asleep, he feels he can get away with letting them wander to Arthur.

Dark crescents under his eyes. Probably has not had the chance to sleep in the past two days with chasing after Micah. A smear of dirt on one cheek. Strong, calloused hands gripping his coffee cup, held close to his face and basking in the warmth. Early morning chill still clings to the air around them and Arthur rolls his shoulders as the heat from the fire settles into his bones. His bandana hangs tied around his neck, close and still ready to hide his face. He hunches closer to the fire and tugs at the cloth, scratching against the day-old scruff on his neck and jaw, pulls it away to leave his throat bare. Folds the bandana over itself into a triangle and tucks it away in his satchel.

Charles glances away. Stares into his cup of coffee as if it will solve any of the want tumbling in his stomach. Like a tumbleweed destined to get stuck in the barbs of a ranch fence. When he glances up, Hosea catches his eye and the smile on his face is too toothy to be anything but knowing.

To try and shrug off Hosea’s shrewd stare, Charles stands and stretches, arms behind his back and elbows locked. With his fingers interlocked, he stretches out his shoulders, feels eyes on him again and looks away from Hosea, feels a shadow of embarrassment bubble up in his gut. Hosea has never seemed hostile to Charles, but that could easily change.

But turning his head means he meets blue eyes that are so warm yet so afraid. Arthur ducks his head, staring into the coffee grounds lurking at the bottom of his mug, but Charles thinks he spies blush rising in the man’s cheeks. Probably not, probably just the warmth of the sunlight and the campfire. He catches the looks more and more now; glances he assumes he is not meant to notice. Charles must be imagining them, their cause, maybe not.

He refuses to look to Hosea again in fear of what he will see on the old man’s face. At least John is still oblivious on the other side of the flames, looking close to dozing and falling back into the dirt.

The farewell he gives earns mumbled pleasantries. He has arrows to fletch and distance to put between him and Arthur. Charles is not one for imagining things, for assuming others are looking at him when it is obvious they have no reason to. But he finds himself hoping. Bitter and old as that wound might be. It is something that will never happen, for him at least, but the warmth fluttering behind his ribs is harmless and for him alone.

Late morning drones through the camp like oxen pulling at a wagon yoke. A routine Charles is starting to feel comfort in. People move about, and he keeps an eye on the comings and goings. Mary-Beth settles near the women’s tent to write. Miss Grimshaw is a rush of skirts as she rushes past on another hunt for Uncle. Kieran hauls bales of hay for the horses, his shoulders tight and held tense. When Charles nods to him and receives one in return, Kieran’s steps lose a fraction of their tension.

Arthur stalks past, holding a paper envelope and scowling worse than Charles has ever seen him. He walks over to Rosie and leads her away from the herd to the hitching posts. His movements are gruff and heavy as he tightens the saddle on her back, hands still gentle but tense. Kieran looks close to approaching him, but backs off after a too harsh pull at a saddle strap.

Charles does not know what set Arthur off, only knows Karen made a fuss after Hosea rode back from town with the post yesterday. Gossip spreads through camp faster than brush fire, so Arthur receiving a letter is not news, but Charles did not listen further. He went to take watch and ignored the curiosity itching at his neck; Arthur would want a modicum of privacy.

He sets the half-finished arrows near his bedroll and walks over. It scares him how easy it feels to approach Arthur, how painless, because in some distant part of his mind he knows it should feel strange. Six months should not mean this level of trust. Six months should mean a wary, close to skittish, sort of distance between himself and the others in camp. Nothing purposeful or rude about it, just wary. And really, he should treat this like any other thing he will soon lose. Through some blunder or other, his or Arthur’s, this effortless content will be gone someday. He knows it, accepts it.

Charles hesitates a few feet away, but swallows that down, knows he needs to ask; no one else will. “Arthur. You good?” The words earn him a pause, and he assumes Arthur will not bother answering.

Arthur halts in saddling Rosie and looks over his shoulder to Charles, his mouth set in a too grim line. He finishes tightening the saddle, pauses when he is done to lean on Rosie’s flank. The shake of his head is small, the tassel hanging from the back of his hat hardly moves, but the admission of weakness is a show of trust. A wall he is letting down for Charles.

Charles steps forward so he can speak low and quiet. “Want me with you?”

Another pause, and Arthur turns fully. He shaved his face, cleaned the smears of dirt and grime, skin flushed red from scrubbing at it. Hat dusted off, clean white shirt buttoned up to the collar, boots free of mud. He stands straight and tall, heavy shoulders and legs that make him the imposing enforcer figure the gang relies on. Charles is not often on the receiving end of this much of Arthur’s attention; it tends to be sidelong glances, nervous looks from underneath the safety of his hat. Looks that send his heart stuttering and thoughts racing. This is a stare Charles is unsure if his words earn, appraising and dangerous, and the unsettled feeling in his chest is from the intensity of Arthur’s stance rather than the potential danger of it. He tries his best to keep his voice calm, sure. “I’ll watch your back if you need it.”

The camp moves behind them, crackling fires, clucking hens, someone yelling from the cliff edge, but it all drowns out as he watches Arthur consider. Blue eyes stare, wide and open as an eagle soaring through wisps of clouds, and Charles holds back a flinch. It is like earning the trust of a wild horse, all skittering feet and patience. He doubts the offer of a carrot would help right now.

The nod, when it finally comes, means Arthur is back to looking at the ground, hiding under the brim of his hat. His shoulders bow with a sudden release of tension and breath. Arthur holds the paper tight in his fist, crumpled at the edges. It sets Charles worrying about what the day will bring. But he trusts Arthur to watch his back. He did not have to help hunt those poachers, did not have to kill that man, did not have to get drunk by the lake with Charles under the stars to help him forget for a little while, but Arthur did. He came and found Charles in the woods, even as drunk and as sad as he was, just to make sure Charles was alright. Handed over his journal and let Charles read through its pages, let him see pencil sketches he is unsure Arthur permits anyone else to see. Trust. If he can help Arthur, return that trust, that will be enough.

“Alright. Meet you at the road.” Arthur mounts his horse without another glance and canters off into the woods.

Charles does his best to grab his things without looking hurried. No one pays him any mind when he mounts Taima and leaves camp. In the woods he calls out a greeting to John where he stands watch and rides out to the main dirt road near the rail tracks. Blue jays squawk at him from the low hanging branches of poplar trees. Prairies stretch to the East, dry and free and empty. Part of him wonders if Arthur will bother hanging back, if waiting for Charles to follow was too much and he bolted off to whatever this is.

But he spots Rosie at the top of the next rise, deep chestnut red amongst the warm prairie, galloping through the grass like her tail is on fire. Arthur sits hunched in the saddle, looking like he is trying his best to keep hold of his hat. The horse must see Charles because she turns, sharp and heavy, to run at him. Taima does not spook at the charge; the mare must know Rosie’s mannerisms better than Charles by now. Rosie is a horse just the right side of odd.

She stops in a rush of dust and hooves and Arthur is yelling, “What in the hell do you think you’re doing, girl!” But he does not lash out, just smacks her shoulder with an affectionate hand. He smiles, if only a slight one. “Nearly bucked me off doing that.”

“Seems she felt you needed distracting.” Charles adds, smiling at the horse. Her ears tilt forward, and she tosses her head playfully.

“Well, hell she went charging through the brush like there was something to run from.” As he readjusts in the saddle, Arthur’s mouth settles into a grimace and just as fast as a rain squall starts and ends, he closes off again, “C'mon, let's head into Valentine.”

Charles follows without question. They pass over the rail tracks, follow the line of telegram wires leading into town. Arthur does not say a word until they reach the outskirts. The bleating of sheep is intense in the afternoon air.

“Now, I ain’t gonna waste your time trying to explain this to you. Not in a bad way, just…it's a lot to drop on a fella.” Arthur looks over at Charles in small moments, when the sun catches his eyes and he looks away just as quick. His hands are nervous at the seams of Rosie’s reins, running along the threads and picking at strays. “I don’t know. Maybe you shouldn’t come with.” He rubs a hand at his mouth, and his legs are readjusting in the stirrups.

“I'll watch your back if you need me to, Arthur. That won't change. Whatever you need.” The silence hangs between them like it always does, even with the noise of the street and the livestock pens. They walk on and Arthur's fidgeting calms.

The house they approach is on the outer reaches of town, large enough to be imposing but the paint is a splintered, washed out blue. Pots of flowers crowd the front porch and Charles wonders again what they’re in for.

Arthur leads the horses to a nearby tree and jumps off Rosie's back. He fumbles with the reins, and Charles hops down to take them. He tries not to think of how close they are, how easy it would be to hold Arthur’s shaking hands. His lip sports a bloody, nervous welt.

It is obvious to Charles that this is not a job; Arthur's nerves are never this easy to see. Whoever is in the house has set him off in a bad way. The man is always so calm, anxieties only showing themselves in small tells lost on most, and Charles hates to see him this outwardly ruffled.

“Need me with you? Or…” Charles starts to offer but Arthur’s hand drops to the buckle of his belt, grips at the metal with paling fingers. He shakes his head, nose scrunching at the bridge. “No, no. I…I need to do this myself.”

* * *

The woman rushes back into the house in a rush of green silk, the door giving a thin slam.

Arthur leans on the porch column for too many minutes, looks as though he needs the support to remain standing. His head tilts so far down the hat brim covers his entire face.

Songbirds return to their chattering after the slap of the door. Charles pets at Taima’s shoulder to ground himself. He will not walk over, knows it would be unwelcome, no matter how forgiving Arthur can be. It feels like hours pass before Arthur rolls his shoulders and makes his way back. His steps are heavy and slow, and when he reaches the tree he sits down against the trunk. He sighs, defeated and tired.

Charles hesitates, but when he sits against the adjacent tree trunk, facing each other and close enough that their boots could touch, he feels the closeness is alright. He knows he needs to say something, so he takes the time to weigh what words Arthur needs to hear, what he might want to hear instead.

“I see what you meant, before.” The words are bitter in his mouth, like the sting of eating a crabapple. He heard none of the conversation and has little to go off of, but he knows the tone of hushed anger, knows the gestures of an argument held back, a wound long scabbed over but still fresh. And Arthur looks so miserable.

“Yeah she gets that way.” Arthur fidgets with the spurs on his boots. He tosses his head a little, like an irritated horse, and then his neck drops the tension so he is staring into the mud under their feet. His mouth opens a few times, trying for words, before, “Nah she is kind. Mary is…good. We just don’t…I just never learn, do I?” Charles assumes he is not meant to answer that. “It always feels as though it will be…different somehow. But it never is. She's always the same. Asks me to change even though she won’t. Pretty like a rattlesnake. And I know why she won’t. And she shouldn't. But I'm…”

Charles takes the free moment to look at Arthur, doubtful he will notice, and in a moment of blind bravery, unconcerned if he does. The man is all sun roasted skin, frayed denim, the thick smell of sweat and leather and horse. He is tall and broad in the shoulders, bowlegged from years of riding horses, scarred from years of being an outlaw. His face frowns now, deep furrows surrounding his mouth, but Charles knows how it looks when Arthur smiles, when he laughs deep to the sky. Knows the way shadows creep over Arthur’s face in the moonlight, how easy and calm his eyes are after a drink of whiskey to take the edge off his worries. Not pretty, but beautiful.

Charles feels a sinkhole opening underneath him, a yawning maw that will devour him if he lets it, if he wants it to. “You are as you are, Arthur.” There is no fear in Charles' voice, and he is proud of himself for that. He knows he has not spoken out of turn.

Arthur's hands clench into fists, then relax again. Birds chirp around them, light and alive. “I wanted you there with me. Just knew she'd be cruel. Knew she'd sneer like she does.” The words come from under Arthur’s hat, and Charles does not bother trying to meet his eyes. But he wonders if they would be angry or sad.

“I'd have stood with you.” The spring breeze is crisp against his cheeks. Wind blows through the trees and dances in his hair where it escapes the band at his neck.

“Shouldn’t ask that of you. Shouldn’t want that.” Arthur mutters, but he looks over at Charles, sad eyes searching for a sneer or some cruel remark. Tracking the flow of his hair.

“You can want whatever you like. Rattlesnakes don’t scare me.” Arthur does not duck his head, does not look away. His mouth is smiling, tentative and fragile though it is, and Charles knows one wrong word will make it flee into hiding.

“Well alright then.” Arthur looks away, but his shoulders look more settled than they were before. “Now, I know I dragged you out here, and I know this ain’t no concern of yours. But I…” Arthur’s boot kicks at the dirt, his jaw works as if he is chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Need to go get her little brother back. She asked me to but…He’s a good kid, just not the brightest when it comes to staying out of trouble.” Charles hears the desperation in Arthur's voice, the fear of being alone after all of that. The sinkhole of what this could be, how this could hurt them both, opens up underneath him and Charles feels no fear.

“Lead the way.”

* * *

After hunting down Mary’s brother, a long chase across the Heartlands Charles could have done without, they ride back to Valentine with Jaime sitting behind Arthur in the saddle. The boy keeps peeking shy glances back at Charles. Seems like a nice enough kid, and Arthur is the one to keep him talking, most likely to calm himself down after Jaime’s stunt back on the railroad tracks, but Jaime always turns the conversation to whether Arthur and Mary are back together. Arthur’s jaw is tense, never gives the kid an answer, and he looks to be grinding his teeth just as much as Charles is.

Strange to think that Arthur has this sort of past still following him. From the way Jaime talks, it must have been a few years since Arthur has even seen Mary. And since Charles met Arthur it has been nothing but the outlaw life – no hint of something before, no secret life hidden on the side. Just Arthur. It feels surreal to see the man in another context.

When the Valentine train station comes into view, Charles feels struck with the need to be away, to avoid meeting this Mary Linton in person. He saw Arthur standing on that porch, as if his skin was ripped back from the muscle the moment Mary opened the door. Defenseless, vulnerable. Charles does not have that history with Arthur, the years of trust built up to see what hides under his skin, those years Mary seems hellbent on wasting.

“I’ll be out here if you need me.” Charles tells Arthur as they approach the hitching posts. There’s a flinch in Arthur’s shoulders but he hides the rest of it. Charles knows he is lucky to see that much.

“Alright. Shouldn’t take long.” Arthur and Jaime dismount from Rosie and make their way up the station steps.

“Thank you for your help, Mr. Smith.” Jaime calls to him before darting into the station. Arthur walks close behind him and tilts his head down far enough for the hat brim to cover his face as he walks in the doors.

_Perhaps he will keep the skin on a bit longer this time._ Charles takes the chance to pet the horses, feeding them treats from his bag. Rosie nuzzles at the palm of his hand, nose smooth as velvet. When the peppermint he offers is long gone, she leans her head into his shoulder, trusting and free. Charles leans into the warmth of her hide and smiles despite the tension of the afternoon. She is a good horse, taking care of Arthur in her own way.

Charles leaves the horses to climb the station steps and lean against the railing for a smoke. He watches through the glass doors, spies Arthur glancing back to check if he is there, as if he is afraid Charles will vanish in the wash of noon sun.

Doors on the platform side open, and Charles can hear voices, Jaime’s and who he can only assume is Mary, but the words lose their meaning in the distance. His cigarette burns down to nothing by the time the train whistles. He tosses the last of the ash into the mud and leans back, crosses his arms, waits.

Arthur exits the station a while later with tentative steps. His ribs expand with a deep breath, held a few seconds and let out in a gust as he leans his elbows against the station railing. He bows his head.

Charles remains facing toward the doors, looking over Arthur’s strong back. If Charles moves, he may give in to the temptation of leaning against Arthur’s shoulder. This is not the time, the place, the feeling, for that.

When Arthur looks up at the muddy road leading further into town, blue eyes under a beaten leather brim, he looks so tired, sad. “You don’t talk much.”

Charles tries to calm his surprise as the conversation turns to him. His throat feels scratchy with nerves, the uncertainty of words. “Don’t always feel I need to.”

“But you do now. I can feel it. Like when I first roped Rosie and she wanted to buck me off.” Arthur’s voice sounds heavy as if he needs to clear his throat.

It is true. He wants to ask why Arthur and Mary broke things off in the first place. Wants to tell Arthur the beauty of his blue eyes. Ask what has made him hide this way.

“Don’t feel it’s my place.” Wants to tell Arthur he is worth this. Charles wants to tell him, convince him, knows he cannot even as the man’s friend.

“It’s not…But that don’t mean I don’t want to hear what you have to say.” Arthur’s voice is deep and rasping now, spoken low in his chest.

“I just…hate to see you like this.” Arthur’s patchworked skin, his only defense, pulled back, stitches ripped and bloody.

“Ah, ain’t nothing you can do about it.”

Charles feels words ripping at his lungs, trying to get out but he does not know how. The silence never grates between them, never bothers Charles, never seems to bother Arthur either. It is an understanding between them that Charles has not felt with another person in too long. A mutual silence boiling up from respect and trust. And maybe more.

But Charles knows, feels, he needs to do something, say something that will stop the hurt spread across Arthur’s face. Oil seeping into water, sick and clinging.

His words fail him, hates that they do, so he pats a hand at Arthur’s shoulder, settles it there. The white fabric of his shirt is soft to the touch. His skin feels warm and alive through the cotton. Charles expects Arthur to tense or brush him off, but he looks up at Charles with too much weight in his eyes and leans into the hand, does not pull away. The floor threatens to rip apart and swallow Charles down into the darkness, if he lets it.

“I said I’d watch your back. Don’t matter what it is.”

Arthur looks down, away, clears his throat, “Thank you, Charles.”

* * *

The Twin Stacks stare down across the plains, as regal as kings. Sunset is a few hours off but the red rock lining the cliffs is as vibrant as the orange poppies scattered along the roadside. Arthur tenses as they near the buttes. His spine is too straight, too purposefully alert. Rosie grunts with nerves, sidestepping at the turn off toward Emerald Ranch. But they continue on toward camp and Charles watches, perplexed, as Arthur and Rosie both lose that sharp wariness.

Charles feels the question sit on the tip of his tongue but holds it back; the burden of the afternoon is only just beginning to ease off Arthur’s shoulders, dust drifting away in the prairie winds.

Their approach to camp earns a nod from John, still standing watch under the cover of the trees, looking ready to head back and kick Bill awake for the evening watch. Arthur waves to him, ducking his head as they ride past. John’s hand comes up to mirror Arthur’s, quick as if thinking nothing of it, but he drops it back to his rifle and glares down at the ground. The stitches still dark at his cheeks pull in frustrated lines.

Charles had asked what bad blood sits between Arthur and John, but never got a clear answer. Not from Hosea or from Arthur himself. He could ask John but that is more than likely a path leading to a broken nose.

They hitch Taima and Rosie to an empty post, both horses bending to guzzle water in heaving gulps.

“I’ll be back I gotta…Forgot I need to talk to Dutch.” Arthur mumbles to him, voice still so deep yet as quiet as a mouse now that they are back in camp. He walks off amongst the tents.

Charles hangs back, settles the horses and starts to brush Taima down. Kieran scrambles over to take the reins but Charles shakes his head and waves the man off. People stand at the edges of camp, hovering but not approaching. Not for the first time, he feels thankful his stoicism dissuades the gang from approaching him out of curiosity; he is sure the camp has gossiped to death while they were gone. But after some minutes spent calming his nerves by petting Taima's mane, voices grow close.

“What took you into Valentine, Arthur? What could have been so important?” It’s Micah’s voice, muddy and slimy. It makes the hair at the nape of Charles’ neck rise up as if there is a predator stalking too close.

“None of your business.” Arthur snaps, low and grunting.

Charles sets the brush aside and takes a few steps toward the tents. The mess of canvas and ropes has begun to feel like home, the gang a family of a strange kind, but his instincts whisper to get Arthur away from them. It is a mix of protective and possessive he does not want to think about right now. Never thinks about it if he can help it.

“Oh, he's just asking, Arthur. Really though what were you doing in town? Going after something?” Sean joins in, and Charles watches as Lenny and Bill both walk over from opposite directions, ambling yet purposeful.

“It ain’t none of your business what I do, Sean. Leave it alone.” Arthur’s hands clench into fists at his side. “Don’t have to answer to any of you.” He goes to leave, towards the horses, towards Charles, but Micah blocks him. “Let me through, Micah. I won’t ask nice again.” The growl of Arthur’s voice sets Charles on edge. The rolling lake waves preceding a storm.

“Well that wasn’t very nice anyways. Better ask again-,” Arthur's fist connects with Micah's nose and the snap of bone is deafening. Micah falls to the ground, but is up a moment later, stunned and bloody, snarling like a cornered raccoon. Arthur stands still and tall, and the men must finally see his anger coiled like a snake all too ready to strike again; Bill grabs Micah around the waist and hauls him aside. Micah thrashes, but Charles expects nothing less.

Sean, always cleverer than Charles gives him credit, takes a step back and straightens his back. “We was just asking, Arthur. Didn’t mean nothing.”

Micah breaks away from Bill's hold and freezes. The air holds still, like the rush before dynamite explodes. And Micah, for all his hotheadedness, stalks away. He clutches at his nose to stop the blood flow and mutters under his breath, but his shoulders hunch in cowardice. Even he must realize how badly he would lose a fight against Arthur; Dutch may be the leader of the gang, but Arthur is the strongest wolf in the pack.

It is then that Dutch walks around one of the wagons, and Charles holds his breath; Dutch has that same ability Mary does, to pull Arthur's flesh from his bones with a few innocuous words. “Arthur, I-,” But he stops when he sees the blood, when Micah moves past him, when Arthur stares through him and does not look down to kick the dirt like a petulant child.

The camp holds still and quiet, the seconds before an avalanche. Held breath and calm and before the rumble of so much.

Arthur walks off, away from the group and the camp. He heads straight for the hitching posts, for Rosie, for the promise of freedom a short ride away. But his steps falter when he nears Charles. What little Charles can see of Arthur’s face under his hat is scowling and awful. He nearly trips over a tent stake in his hurry, walks to Rosie, wedges his body between her and Taima and away from the camp's prying eyes.

Standing so close to him, Charles thinks he should be afraid of Arthur, threatened by the man's aggression. But it’s Arthur. His head bows when he asks, his mouth grimacing too hard, eyes still hidden by his hat, but, “You up for a ride out, Charles?”

It hits Charles like a horse hoof to the backside, out of breath and disoriented and scared; Arthur trusts him with this. None of the others know about Mary’s letter, about why Arthur came back to camp with such a short fuse. They do not know why Arthur punched Micah or why Dutch stands left in the dust. Dutch can ask around all he likes, and Charles can hear him and Hosea arguing in the distance, rasping and angry voices, but he will not get a clear answer.

Charles himself is not sure why going and talking to Dutch set Arthur off so badly, but if Arthur trusts Charles with this, he figures it is safer to not question it; might as well dive into the sinkhole rather than sit on the edge of it. “I’m with you, Arthur.”

Arthur flinches, a dip in his shoulders and a jitter in his hands, nods and mounts up.

Dutch quiets and stares after Arthur in astonishment as they leave. The rest of the camp is trying, and failing, to look as though they are not watching the spectacle. Arthur does not spare Dutch a glance, either too afraid to look or not caring about the man’s reaction. Charles is careful to keep his eyes on Arthur’s back, on Rosie’s swishing tail.

As the treeline swallows them, John stands close in the brush, closer than he should be for a watch, and walks past them into camp. There is a moment when he pauses, looks at Arthur and seems to consider what he should say. John looks to the ground and for just a moment Charles is blindsided with how similar the two men are. Flitting eyes and bitten lips and chipped nails. “Stay safe out there you two.” John’s voice is as rough as gravel, but Charles feels he is intruding on something between the brothers.

Arthur calls a “Sure,” over his shoulder and returns his chin to where it digs into his collar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: I hope you have a good day <3


	13. Debts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: This is a long one, very introspective, but it didn’t feel right to split it into two parts. Not much happens action-wise, but I hope ya’ll like it.  
Also, I’m going to be taking a break from updating for a few weeks until I’m done with Fall Quarter; grad school is kicking my butt. Will be back as soon as I can. As always, thanks for reading :)

Arthur realizes after the camp is long behind them, half a mile down the dirt road leading toward the loop around Caliban’s Seat, that Charles has yet to say a word. He feels sick shame slosh around in his stomach. Even if he finds Charles’ presence calming that is no reason to drag the man along on this. In the haze of leaving camp he did not question why he asked Charles to come along again, but now it sinks in how Arthur should be able to do this alone. Should not have asked Charles to come with, bothering him with Arthur’s problems, should not have dragged him along to that dreadful visit with Mary. Should be strong enough to handle this himself. But Charles said,

_“I'm with you, Arthur.”_

Charles' voice is always so calming, deep, sometimes soft. Arthur wonders why that is. Why a man as strong and capable as Charles speaks so low, as if to not say anything at all. Maybe it is the intimidation, the presence Charles has that most others do not.

He wants to hear Charles’ voice so much it aches in his chest. It scares him, and he will not dare say it, but he thinks if he did, Charles would just roll his eyes and tell him some story to pass the time while the horses plod along. It wouldn’t be to needle at Arthur. It would be something simple and easy. A gentle crunch of autumn leaves underfoot. The man seems so comfortable with silence, so stoic in camp, yet he talks when it is just the two of them. Things would feel safe and make sense again in the low timber of Charles’ voice.

But Arthur keeps his mouth shut. Lets his mind run with what new mess talking to Dutch has earned him. Finished up that business with Mary, not well, but enough to let it go, and Dutch was quick to give Arthur something else to worry over.

_Standing in the shade of Dutch’s tent and his face looks close to thunderous. _ _“You’ve been out all day, and you’re still ignoring the jobs I give you, son. Herr Strauss tells me you haven’t collected these last debts. Now, I realize it is not the most wholesome way to provide for the family, but you must do what needs doing.”_

The resentment rises up, stomach acid in Arthur’s throat. Anger at Dutch for acting as though Arthur does not provide for the camp. He hunts he robs he kills for them. There is a wash of fear at the thought of tracking down those debts and losing a part of himself. Everything always feels so awful after, like the sun is gone. Like a miserable night dragging on forever. He grips the reins too tight and Rosie’s steps falter.

_“I’m trusting you to do right by us, son. Can you try to treat that trust with a bit more respect?” Dutch says it with the sneer Arthur always thought, assumed, was reserved for lawmen, for men like Colm O’Driscoll, to show a hint of anger to an enemy._

If he thinks about Dutch’s words, in a tone so like him and yet with a meaning so cutting, Arthur’s skin feels raw and flayed open. Exposed muscle, cold bones. His heart beats too fast and sweat beads at his temples.

It makes him feel like a boy again. Like a child scolded for sneaking too many sweets. But he only ever does what Dutch asks of him. Always. He lives by Dutch’s words, has for 20 years, fights for his ideals and defends his dream of a free life. Staying with Dutch means earning his bounty, robbing, shooting, killing. _The path of the devil_. Never seemed wrong until he heard that damn fortune. Or, he knew somewhere deep inside that it was some kind of wrong, just a sort he could ignore. Now he wonders why he never questioned things.

A pheasant flits across the road in a streak of red feathers too close to Rosie and she squeals in surprise. His mind shakes itself from the clouds and he comforts her, patting her chestnut flank until she settles. “You’re alright, girl.” He peaks a glance over at Charles. Solid, steady Charles. Presence calm and eyes watchful as they ride down the road. Arthur’s breathing eases. If all this thinking distracts him too much, he knows he can rely on Charles keeping an eye out for him. Would be just his luck to run into a pack of bounty hunters right now.

_“I just don’t understand what’s gotten into you. Ever since we got here you’ve been acting different. Not like the son I thought I knew.” Dutch turns to Arthur then, expectant, waiting. And Arthur does not know what to give him. An apology, a reassurance, is what Dutch wants. But Arthur cannot give him that, not anymore._

When he was younger, the threat of Dutch cutting him loose was what kept him in line. As a kid it was terrifying to think Dutch and Hosea might be just one more set of people who would leave him to rot, stop bothering with raising him and move on. Like everyone else did. A thread of rope always pulled taught, never given slack. Even now after so long, as a grown-ass man, he still feels it, the shadow of a hammer ready to swing down at any time. He was young and needed someone to look out for him, feed him and keep him safe, without a question of what he could give in return. At least he thought so. He was only a boy then, no way to fend for himself. Now though, now he does not know anything else. Does not know what sort of life he could have without Dutch, Hosea, there beside him. _He will take everything from you_.

Them turning him away after so many years, cast out like an old dog too weak to hunt, is a thought too terrifying. The loneliness that would come with such a thing is too much for him to stomach. It has been so long since he has been alone, truly alone, with no camp or anyone to ride back to. Barely more than a child back then, so scared and so alone. So long, he wonders if that part of him still survives, the part that stepped up after his pa was gone, buried deep until he has need of it again. He cannot imagine leaving them, or them leaving him. Never seeing Jack’s laughing face or Abigail’s kind eyes again. Never hearing Javier’s guitar again. Never again feeling Hosea’s reassuring hand at his shoulder. _There is still time to stop their ends, yours, but you must save them, so they may save you._

He wishes he had never heard that fortune, never gave money to that blind man. It would make all of this so much easier. Nothing has been easy since that day in the dry sun. Nothing. Not talking to Dutch or John or anyone. Not trying to make things right, not trying to change. It feels like sinking underwater no matter how much he fights it, drifting down into the dark even with his hands reaching for the light. Nothing has been easy since those words.

Except, “I'm…I’m sorry about all that. Didn’t mean t-,” Arthur’s throat constricts, and bile rises to burn at his flesh. Charles makes things easier. Never demands anything of him, never judges. Rides alongside him without question. Easy.

“Arthur. It’s alright.” Charles’ voice is strong with a certainty Arthur envies. It helps to know Charles is here, watching his back. Helps more than he ever wants to admit. Feels selfish to take up the man’s time, to drag him along in this. Charles deserves more credit for being as reliable as he is. Only been running with them half a year and already Arthur trusts him like this. Trusts him so much.

“I didn’t say it before but…thank you. For sitting with me and for…for chasing Jamie and for…well, for all of this. ‘M sorry you had to see me like tha-,” Fear grips Arthur's throat and his voice fails him. Drops into a pit. Refuses to come out no matter how much he coughs, tries. Hates that it does. Wants to scream with it.

“Arthur. I’m with you.”

Rain on a brush fire, calming Arthur’s nerves. Charles’ words always sound genuine, and Arthur never feels a need to second-guess him. Charles is honest, says what he means, would not bother with saying those words over and over if he did not mean them. In a gang full of conmen, Charles might be the most honorable out of them all.

Arthur is sure Charles is not without flaws, no man is, but from where he’s sitting it’s hard to see any. Good in a fight, hardworking, handsome face and wide shoulders. Maybe a little quiet, reserved. Stubborn.

Makes him wonder why Charles is bothering. Such a better man yet he is still here. Arthur knows he has been a pain in Charles’ side today, dragging him from place to place, making him sit around and wait for Arthur to be done with whatever emotions choked him out on that porch stoop. Dragging him away from camp again after such a long day and with no promise of some pay off at the end of this. But Charles knew to stay close on those train station steps, knew to keep his distance when they rode back to camp, knew what to say, what not to say. Did not bring up things Arthur would rather forget, did not mention Arthur’s nerves showing themselves like mad. Arthur always keeps it together so well, at least he thinks so – losing his voice, shaking hands, biting at the corner of his thumbnail until the nailbed bleeds – he tries to keep those things to himself, knows they are a sign of weakness not to be seen. But he can’t seem to hide much around Charles, not anymore. A couple of hunting trips and all of a sudden Arthur feels…

Alright. It feels alright to ride across the country and go hunting with Charles. His friend. Feels fine to let the man see some of those bits and pieces. Lose his voice and know that Charles can find it and bring it back. Fall apart and not be worried about Charles seeing underneath his skin. Let all of this hell from the past month wash over him and trust Charles to watch his back. That man does so much, and Arthur is at a loss as to why he would, why he keeps on helping Arthur through things.

The gouge of the Dakota river sits in the distance, steep cliffs peeking through the trees and brush. Arthur thinks of how much he has yet to sketch of the gorge. For another day, maybe, when Dutch’s temper cools and Arthur’s skin does not feel as though it is about to rip apart at the thought of wasting time like that. It all feels like such a waste of precious time.

_Dutch’s scowl eases into a frown, something tired in it. “I understand where you are coming from, Arthur. I do. But I am trying to keep us alive. Trying to keep us afloat in a world that is set against us. So that when the right opportunity strikes, we can take advantage of it.”_

Dutch doesn’t understand, not really. Arthur wonders what Dutch would have done after hearing the fortune. How old Dutch would react to hearing a prophet say _You’re going to die_. Would he fear his own death, the deaths of those he loves, and feel a need to change, uproot everything he knows, to prevent that? Or would he write it off, like he does so much?

They follow the river at an easy pace, keeping its burbling within earshot. The sun sinks lower and lower and Arthur’s heart skitters as they continue toward the Downes homestead.

Charles keeps silent, does not ask where they are riding to. As if he is content to follow Arthur. And he has, without complaint, with nothing but understanding and strength Arthur feels so much guilt for relying on. The man is too good for the gang, for Arthur.

He glances over again, strong jaw and shoulders, and looks back to Rosie’s saddle just as fast. Cannot look for too long or Charles will catch him staring again. Like this morning. That had been bad enough. Feels like so long ago. “I’ve got an errand to run for Dutch. Don’t feel like you have to ride along. Sorry I dragged you out here in the first place. I-,” The words are not enough, and he knows it. His hand rises and fingernails scratch at the nape of his neck, digging in harshly.

“You haven’t dragged me anywhere.” The words are solid, nearly a scoff, and Arthur ducks his head until he can focus on his shirt buttons and not much else, hopes that will calm his stuttering heart. Heavy plains grass sits along the roadside, in a wash of golden sunlight. A flock of geese honk somewhere above them. Arthur tries to focus on the noise rather than the homestead they are approaching. Low fences and a chicken coop, garden rows, calm smoke puffing out the chimney. A place his family could live in another life. Another life without all of this mess. That would take so much change. The little sprout of hope sitting in his lungs squirms.

_“I understand if this doesn’t sit too right with you, Arthur. But some things just don’t change.” Arthur feels so much, ash and blood and bone and change and the devil, rush him, feels close to vomiting right there in the tent. Upchuck bile and sick onto the rough floorboards Dutch stands on every day while the rest of the gang sleeps in the dirt. Everything is too much, buzzing between his eyes and swirling in his ears, like the terror of being thrown from a train and not knowing if he’ll fall under the wheels._

Arthur huffs under his breath and pulls on Rosie’s reins. She snorts and stops close to the fence with Taima stopping beside her a moment later. He sets a hand on Rosie’s shoulder, feels the coarse red hair of her coat rasp against his palm. Staring out over the homestead, a pig pen, a barn with sunset warmed wood, a pair of chairs sitting on the porch, Arthur feels his throat close up.

Downes’ debt is nothing to cry over, twenty dollars, but Arthur has beaten men for less. For much less. Buckled down and swallowed his humanity and drawn blood. Split his knuckles on the faces Strauss preys on. Faces Dutch did not have a reason, or need, to care about.

_Arthur knows he looks _ _a sight, must be turning green with how his stomach feels, curdling with spoil and rot, but Dutch waves him off. “Now get gone. I expect you to come back with what is ours.” His eyes glint black like the danger of a black widow spider._

Bile and fire rise into his mouth and Arthur tries to swallow it down, does not care if Charles hears the hesitation. The money is not theirs, never is, never has been. That is what Dutch taught him; to take from those who have and give it to those who do not. Arthur wonders when Dutch forgot that, if he ever believed it to begin with.

That contrast settles over his shoulders, rainwater gushing through drought cracks in the earth. Arthur does not want to walk up to this house, where chickens peck in the yard and a man kneels in the garden rows. He ponders riding off somewhere else, off into the trees and the mountains with Charles beside him. Wonders how long that would last, how long Charles might let him run.

“I’m here if you need me.” Charles’ voice rumbles. The comfort of a warm campfire on a cold winter night. Soot and calm and heat.

_Always need you _is what Arthur’s gut wants to say. Knows he can’t. “Shouldn’t take long.” Is what he barks out as he dismounts and starts walking toward the garden. His hand curls into a fist, nails against the flesh of his palm, trying to steel himself for what is about to happen, what he needs to do to keep his place with the gang, to do right by them. Suppose some things don’t change.

Downes kneels in the small garden plot, weeding a row of radish sprouts and looking as unaware as a fat June rabbit. Yet his face is haggard, hair thin, shirt billowing on his gaunt frame. The scarecrow standing at the head of the field wears better fitting clothes.

Arthur’s stomach tumbles, hesitates, but he knocks a knuckle against the wooden gate. He feels like such a criminal right now, an intruder in someone’s life.

Downes startles, stands in a rush of panic and coughing, rake gripped like a sword in his hands, and there is instant recognition on his face. “W-whatever do you want?

“Thomas Downes, you owe me money.”

“N-no…I uh…I-,”

“We are not a charity, Mr. Downes.” _But we used to be,_ sits on the edge of his tongue. Back when things made sense and they helped people more than they hurt. Feels so long ago.

Downes goes to swing the rake, ill planned and uncoordinated, and Arthur’s arm rises up to block it. The metal hardly impacts his arm and Arthur fights the urge to lash out. Downes drops the rake and cowers, close to the ground, trampling a few fragile plant shoots under his boots. “Please sir…I have a family. Please.”

“I…I don’t care about your family.” Arthur mumbles out the lie, feels his legs and his hands and his heart tremble with it. If someone said the same about _his_ family, he would bash their face in. Which is what he is supposed to do now. Should beat Downes until the man admits to what Arthur already knows; there is no money, nothing to bring back to dear old Dutch.

Downes sputters, coughs into his arm, and Arthur sees blood spray onto the man’s sleeve. So bright against the pale cotton. Sick and broke and dying. “Please, sir. I…I don’t have anything to…Please. Have mercy.”

_Change._

Arthur hears it. Sees past Downes’ cowering form to the eyes of that ghostly stag, stares into them and through the world. Hears dust and time and the stamping of Old Man Cassidy’s cane.

He does not know what sort of future the old man saw, what took hold of him and made him spin that fortune into being. For just a dollar and ten cents, he turned Arthur’s world on its head. Arthur wants to brush it off, has been trying for weeks, but the entire affair was too strange to fake, too terrifying to be anything other than a telling of a future in which he, and his family, dies. Doesn’t know how it will happen, or when, but he knows it will if he doesn’t make some sort of difference.

And really, he doesn’t know how to change. Has been doing a shit job of it so far, as far as he can tell. Still robbing, still killing, still has a bounty on his head that always seems so much bigger than him. Said a few things to help Sean, tried to do the same for Lenny. Helped Mary-Beth that one time, been talking to Kieran kinder. Tried to talk some sense into John and it backfired pretty bad. Been selfish enough to take up Charles’ time as if he is something Arthur could ever have.

But maybe he has. Changed, that is. All of those little things must add up to something. Hosea always talks about the best scores being long ones, waiting weeks and months for the right moment to strike.

And Mary. Hanging over his head for so long, and still is in a way. He would have fought for what they had, at one time, would have dug in his heels like the stubborn mule he has always been, but he knows nothing would come of it. Nothing but more let-down and heartache. No matter how he changes. Too much time and distance between them. Better to let her go, change how he sees her, make what they had into a memory he can look back on someday and not hurt. Not feel as if there is a fresh, gaping wound in his chest.

_“I’m trusting you to do right by us, son.”_

Arthur wants to, but he can’t. Not like this. Not with Downes cowering in the dirt. He cannot think that this, beating and killing, is the solution, the way out of this mess. If it means beating an innocent man, a man too sick to care for his family, a man trying to help others before himself, then Arthur has to think none of this is right. None of it. The robbing and the killing and this strange path of revenge Dutch seems to be cooking up ever since they left the mountains.

_Change._

The damn fortune runs through his head, stubborn as salmon swimming upriver. He never would have thought this way before those words, that dusty voice and eyes staring into his soul.

But he wants to talk with Hosea at the fire and not worry about how much he lets on, worry about the man thinking of him as less just for caring. Wants to ride out with John and knock some sense into his head. Wants to console Sean when the kid feels lost. Sweat starts on the back of his neck at the thought of wanting Charles with him for every ride out of camp, wants to hear him laugh. It is all so selfish. So different from how he used to think. He wants so much, and knows he deserves none of it. Wants to change and feels guilt for it. Guilt for betraying Dutch’s dreams, for this hint of disloyalty, the only word he knows for it, sitting in his chest, but Arthur cannot see this as the right path, this _path of the devil_.

_Change. For yourself. For them._

He looks away from where Downes cowers in the dirt. Over the fence and at the edge of the property, Charles stands with Taima, scratching at her ears and watching every move Arthur makes. Heavy, dark eyes. Arthur wants to drown in them. Thinks he could. Could fall into them in a heartbeat. Wonders if Charles might let him.

He wonders how Charles would handle this, a big man so calm and content, so good at being good that he nearly doesn’t belong in their gang, except he does he fits with them in such a strange way. And he is not always calm, is not always sure, like when those poachers boasted about things no man should ever be proud of. Charles let his anger show, the fury and the sorrow and the rage washing over his eyes. A sadness so profound it went beyond words and tears. With that trust between them, knowing Charles is a part of what Arthur wants to save, he can’t bring himself to do this, to beat an innocent man until he coughs up teeth.

“I…I mean I…I’m here to tell you your debt has been forgiven.” Arthur coughs out.

It is all he can think of to calm the stampede of horse hooves beating in his chest. Someone must pay the debt and Arthur can scrape up the money. It solves next to nothing, and the prospect of returning to camp sets his head worrying like a kicked hornet nest, but the muscles in his neck and shoulders ease.

And it means Charles will not have to see Arthur like that, like a dog gone rabid. Frothing at the mouth with rage washing over his eyes and smiling with it.

“F-forgiven?”

The disbelief on Downes’ face makes Arthur hide his own, looking to the ground so he can hide from those eyes and the shine in them. Hope. His ears feel too warm. “Yes. Forgiven. Good day to you.” He nods and wheels around and hopes this can be over now.

“Th-thank you sir! Bless you.” Downes calls after him. The words spur him faster and it takes all of his self-control to keep from running. So long as Downes does not follow after him he will not have to flee like a rabbit chased by hounds. Already feels that enough as it is.

Arthur walks back through the yard and past the fences, grips the horn of Rosie’s saddle and looks over to Charles.

Strong, steady Charles. His eyes so sure and honest, with a hint of a concerned frown peaking out the corner of his mouth. The darkness of his hair drapes over his shoulder, thick in the sunlight, safe. “You good?”

“No, but I’m getting there.”

* * *

They ride back to camp in silence. Arthur’s head is too full of everything to manage a conversation, and Charles, bless him, does not press. Let’s Arthur brood. He feels something beyond grateful, beyond words, like the softness of daisy petals.

Nothing is solved, sparing Downes only creates problems, and yet Arthur feels at peace with it. Can’t take none of it back, and he does not want to. Does not want to live in that, wallow in that disgusting feeling of having hurt someone so undeserving of it.

He wants to keep riding, keep on as if nothing has changed, as if nothing is wrong, as if he does not dread returning to camp. And he wonders how long Charles would let him. Probably not for long; Charles would argue that running will not solve a damn thing, practical man that he is.

The approach to camp comes into view, woods dark and heavy, and Arthur knows he needs to say something while the darkness of faded sunset can hide his face and the emotion sitting there. “Thank you, Charles. For…You being there helped…more than you know.” Not quite what he means to say, but probably as close as he will get tonight.

“You’re welcome.” Arthur’s ears burn and he ducks his head. “Let me know the next time you need to get out of camp. Could go for a hunt, see how you’ve improved with that bow.” Charles brings up none of it, and Arthur smiles, hoping he can repay some of this kindness someday.

They pass Lenny standing watch, rifle in hand and posture so straight and tall. “Welcome back. Micah left not long after you two.” He looks too serious, too on edge, but Arthur does not know how to help with that. Suppose the whole camp has a right to be on edge after a stunt like that.

“Thank you for taking watch, Lenny. Appreciate it.”

“Of course. You two get some rest, now.”

Camp sits quiet and lulling as they hitch up the horses. Campfires aglow, Javier’s guitar strumming lazily, no sign of Dutch. Kieran, after only a few moments, rushes over from the game table to take the horses’ reins. Arthur waves him off, glad to see that he nods without too much hesitation and returns to the table, sitting with Hosea and Tilly. It’s about time the kid started working himself into the group.

Hosea looks over to him, but Arthur ducks his head and turns to start unsaddling and brushing Rosie. He knows Hosea wants to ask, knows the gang is itching for gossip, some of them probably weighing their chances of just coming over and asking him what happened. But no one approaches him, mentions the fight, how Arthur left things.

Charles stands at Taima’s side, brushing her already clean hide. Arthur follows his lead, tries to focus on one thing at a time. Looks at his hands and the brush and not Charles’ eyes. “I…well…I’m sorry I kept you out all day with this. I didn’t mean to take up so much of your time.” Never used to apologize this much. He hopes it isn’t as bothersome as his mind says it is.

“Never mind helping you, Arthur.” Charles' face, dark in the shadows of the clouds and creased with concern, is more comforting to Arthur than he wants to think about. Isn’t sure he could put it into words.

He falls into the routine of brushing Rosie down, nods to Charles when the man leads Taima over to the herd. Holds back his words, bites his tongue, when Charles walks back to set a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, murmurs to him, “Make sure you get some rest after today. It’ll be alright.” Charles walks off then, and Arthur watches him for a touch too long. Looks back to Rosie when Charles disappears behind one of the tents, feels his head ache, and his eyes burn. So tired, so heavy with all of this.

He finishes with Rosie and walks back to his lean-to, avoids the game table, the campfires, walks closer to Dutch’s tent to avoid the rest. He can handle Dutch saying something, he thinks, but if Hosea or John or anyone catches him right now, he is not sure if he could hold himself together.

Arthur feels dread tumble around in his ribcage. He cannot avoid the tent forever and he doesn’t want to try. Something spiteful in him rises up, past the childish fear, and he stalks close to the hulking shape. Candlelight illuminates the far side, Dutch sitting up to read outside so as to not bother Molly with the light.

Dutch is there, a shape in the corner of Arthur’s eye for a moment as he walks past. “You get that business taken care of?”

Arthur only grunts, keeps moving. He expects something, a reprimand or maybe an insult. But, after a pause, Dutch’s voice is calm as death when he says, “I expect you’ll betray me in the end, Arthur. You’re the type.”

Weight settles on Arthur’s shoulders and his legs stop. He will not turn his head, will not give that to Dutch. Will not meet too dark eyes. Wants Dutch to be frowning and sad, knows by the tone of his voice he isn’t.

“That so?” Arthur hears his own voice, body, soul, and is so tired.

“You tell me.”

Words circle his throat and tie themselves up. A noose refusing to let go so he can say whatever he likes. Not the time. Not the place. He needs to keep a hold of his temper, knows having a shouting match with Dutch will not help anything.

Will not change anything.

He keeps walking, feels Dutch’s gaze on his back and ignores it with everything he has. Turns the corner of the tent, walks over to his own bed, and sits down with a sigh that feels dusty with how much is pent up in it.

His entire body aches. Pulsating, miserable pain. His stomach roils in a fit with it. The twinge at the back of his skull feels like he got knocked out in a fight. Feels something inside him, some emotion or memory or feeling, once so strong and unbreakable, begin to crack and crumble at the edges. Air feels too far away to breathe.

But he tries. Tries to breathe through it as best he can, deep inhales and shakier exhales. Knows, hopes, that Dutch does not, cannot, truly mean what he said. But that does not make it hurt any less. Not in the least bit. And Arthur feels so broken and downtrodden.

When the trembling calms, when the distant lulling rhythm of Javier’s guitar slows Arthur’s breathing, he clears his throat and goes about his night as if nothing has changed, as if there is not drop of poison working its way through his blood. He lights the lantern by his bed and is setting his boots aside when Sean walks over from the direction of the cliffs, as if the ammunition wagon is on his way back to his own tent. “You alright, Arthur?” The kid’s face is murky and dark in the low glow of lantern light, but his voice is heavier, thicker, than it tends to be.

“I’m fine, Sean.” Arthur rubs a hand across his face, tired and sore from riding around all day. Feels like he fought a bear. Prays Sean did not hear what Dutch just said, or saw how afraid and vulnerable Arthur just was.

Sean stands still in the dark outside the little pool of light, hand fidgeting at the pocket of his jeans. “Good punch on Micah. Bastard was right asking for it. I’ve always known I’d hate to go against you in a fight. Figure I’ll stand back and jump in when you get tired, eh?” He does not look at Arthur as he says it, stares into the grass at their feet as if it will answer him.

Arthur hears the unspoken, _I’m with you in this_. So quiet compared to what he expects out of Sean. Maybe some of what he said on that drunk night got through.

His heart feels warm with the sentiment, but after today he cannot bring himself to show it much. “Thanks, Sean. Now get. Go get some shut eye.”

Sean’s face, all scrunched up with nerves, calms, and he nods along as he turns, “Sure, Arthur. Same to you, old man.”

Watching Sean amble off into the dark sets Arthur’s mind thinking, wondering what he should have said, if ignoring Dutch’s words was enough, and all he wants to do is sleep.

Instead he digs his journal out from the bottom of his satchel. He tosses a few cigarette cards and some loose papers onto the table until he finds the steel pen, from that man outside Valentine so long ago, hidden at the bottom of the bag. The metal glows ethereal in the lantern light, maybe too much, too permanent, for some late-night writing but he cannot write this all down in pencil. Needs the dark ink looking back from the page. Flipping through his journal he only pauses on the sketch of Charles for a few moments before he finds the next blank page.

_Got back this morning from breaking Micah out of the Strawberry jail. Wouldn’t leave without his guns and threatened to shoot up the whole town for them. So, I robbed the Sheriff’s in the middle of the night. Glad Hosea taught me how to jimmy windows open. Would’ve been a ghost town afterwards if I hadn’t. And Micah wouldn’t have cared._

_Tried to ask around town about him, but everyone just said the same – unruly bastard who shot a man. Was no talk of what Lenny said, how Micah was talking to the law, but I’m gonna keep looking._

Something about Micah still itches at the back of Arthur’s skull, like how a poison ivy rash slowly fades, but he knows to leave that alone for another day. Bigger fish are in the pond. He turns to another page.

_Got a letter from Mary, today. Asking for my help. Oh Mary. I feel like a fool. She plays me like a fiddle, and I let her for reasons I do not understand. I don’t love her anymore, least, not in the same way. I know I did at one time, but that time is past. And there is some strange comfort in that. Suppose it will help to know that I did what I could to help her with her brother. I hope she can forgive me for the things I have said, though she has always been stronger than me in that. Was always able to forgive._

It feels comforting to have words for it. Dark ink staring back at him. What he feels is not love, not the thing he felt all those years ago. That feeling today, what drove him into riding out this morning, was the hurt and the loneliness and the yearning for something that no longer is. It is not love anymore, though he is unsure exactly what it is. Hurts like a bitch though, whatever it is.

He sketches a pot of flowers at the end of the page, pale pink cosmos Mary always liked so well.

Mary’s picture, her letters, some dried flowers they gave each other, sit in his trunk, tucked away in an old book to keep them safe from dust and travel and time. He hopes, one day, he can look at them with fondness rather than this harsh, aching hurt in his stomach.

_Rode out to Valentine with Charles. Didn’t think I should bring him, second guessed myself the whole way, but he’s got a good head on his shoulders. Seems to always know what to say or when to say nothing at all. It’s a gift I do not possess and find myself wishing I had. Now more than ever._

Words unsaid, unwritten, whisper at his ears, and he keeps writing to quiet them.

_He’s a good man and a good friend. Someone I think I’ll need by my side in the coming months. Don’t know how he does it, but the world feels calmer with him there, as if all this ain’t so complicated._

His cheeks burn and he pauses in writing, stares at the uniform petals of the flowers he’s just drawn, wonders what flowers Charles might like. Turns the page and stops thinking, drags the pen across the paper in tight lines, slow and steady as he can. Needs to get this off his chest.

_No matter how I look at things it’s all a jumbled-up mess. Life made sense not three weeks ago back up in the mountains. I “forgave” Downes’ debt as if that will fix any of this. Suppose it’s part of that change I been meaning to get to. Still not sure if what I’m doing is right._

Pausing, he sets the pen aside, reads over his words and digs the pencil back out of his bag. To the side of the page he sketches the scarecrow from Downes’ field. Stiff straw limbs and a haunting, leering sort of face. Scarecrows always scared him as a child, though he does not understand why. Just bundles of straw and old bits lashed together to make a shadow of a person.

He gets the form well enough, shadows in haphazard scribbles, but the clothes do not hang quite right, folds look a bit odd, and he goes back to the pen.

_When I got back from seeing Mary, Dutch chewed me out for not collecting a debt Strauss had on the books. Didn’t feel right, I told him. Collecting Strauss’ debts always makes me feel awful, worse. But Dutch insists we have to do things for the good of the gang. Felt ill. He didn’t listen._

Thinking back, Dutch hasn’t listened to much lately. Doesn’t seem to matter if it is Hosea or Arthur himself; Dutch knows he knows best. Pushes away others’ words with his own. That is the crux of it. Kicks ideas down until he leaves nothing but the desperate hope that he will lead them into the light.

Arthur is not sure what to feel about that thought, the strength of the doubt in it. It makes his joints lock and his skin tense. Makes that little sprout sitting under his lungs shiver. A brave little plant with budding leaves. Poking and prodding and whispers of what could be.

He will not dare put those words, _you’ll betray me in the end, Arthur_, to paper. Refuses to see them, to dirty his journal with them.

Arthur thinks of the sort of change it would take to escape _the devil_. It bites at his skin.

He thinks of Jack’s smile, Lenny’s drunken laugh, the growl of Mary-Beth’s frustration as she tosses a balled-up page of writing into the campfire. How Tilly hums when she’s hanging up the washing to dry, Karen’s shout, Sadie’s rasping voice. Uncle’s snoring, Susan’s berating, the comfort of Pearson’s stew after a long day. Javier’s serape in campfire smoke. Sean’s sincere, if nervous, blabbering. Abigail standing close to the campfire and handing him a coffee cup in the early mornings. John’s slow healing stitches. The wrinkles around Hosea’s eyes when he grins. Charles’ warm hands and steady shoulders.

Precious moments in time that could be gone so quickly. Could be so many more moments if they were out of danger, gone from all of this. That sprout of hope shivers. Arthur’s hand shakes as he writes,

_Leave._

It sits on the paper, dark ink staring back at him. He huffs a sigh, rolls the steel pen between his shaking fingers. Flips the journal closed. Opens the book again. A single word at the top of the new page. He doesn’t know how to feel about it, about that word. _Leave_.

It sits there and mocks him, implores him, to do something. Change and yet still see it come to nothing, watch as those he loves die in front of him. Change and see them reach safety, flee this life with them and never have to be afraid quite like this again. _Save them so they may save you._

He does not know how to do it. Never would have thought of this before. Before _change_. As if it is an easy thing. He holds the pen to the paper, underneath that word, feels his blood shiver.

_Need to get away from <strike>Blackwater</strike>? <strike>Hanover</strike>? Here. From the Pinkertons and the law._

_Could go <strike>North</strike>? West? West._

_Need to stop being outlaws. Buy land? Cattle? Horses? Farming? Don’t know nothing about that. John and I always joked about being ranchers one day. Would need to buy land. Need money. Treasure maps, Valentine bank, Blackwater stash?_

_Pinkertons still chasing. Could lose them in the <strike>mountains</strike>? Up the river? North, then West._

_Who?_

He rips the page from the binding and stares at the list, the crossed-out words, the hesitation, the dream. His hand itches to write names, the names of his family, of the people he wants, needs, to save. To save them from the nightmares flashing behind his eyelids; screaming horses and gun smoke and rope snapping necks. But he cannot. Cannot put this on them. The scribblings of a man changed because of a fortune told by some beggar. This scattered, wisp of a dream is something Arthur cannot give them. Not a plan, just a dream.

Would they even want to leave with him? Would they follow? Why would they? Could he really keep anyone safe?

Arthur stares up at the stars past the edge of his lean-to, listens to the sounds of his family by the campfires, and thinks maybe. Maybe they can make it out, live through this and make it out of the outlaw life.

Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: The interaction where Dutch says to Arthur, “I expect you’ll betray me in the end, Arthur. You’re the type.” Is canon, and it HURTS. I was not prepared for it in my first run through.


	14. Courage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always thank you so much for reading! Your comments and kudos mean the world to me <3

The camp calms, slowly. At least for the others it does.

Kieran goes on as he has for weeks now, with his head down and his mouth zipped shut. Tension always clinging to his spine. That fight between Arthur and Micah, if it can even be called a fight, stirred everyone up for a few days, and the dust is only starting to settle near a week later. Tension slowly sizzling out between the old guard, or at least the old guard as Kieran understands it; he can only pick up so much from eavesdropping on conversations around camp.

But time keeps moving, and as it goes, he makes bit more progress each day. At least, he hopes so. A few people talk to him now, Arthur and Hosea, sometimes the girls if they happen to be by the coffee pot when Kieran ventures further into camp. Hell, Arthur gave him a tent and it took everything in Kieran’s soul to not fall down in thanks. Having his own tent, small though it may be, makes him feel like a person again, and he makes sure to sneak Rosie extra treats whenever he gets the chance – its the only real way he can repay Arthur’s kindness.

Bill still sneers, and Dutch still glares, but Kieran can accept that sort of treatment easy. The smallest of improvements are what make him hopeful of one day fitting into this strange puzzle of a gang. Just the other day, Sean came up behind him and clapped him on the back, told some awful joke, nearly scared the piss out of him, but that was alright because it made the others laugh and nothing worse ever came of it. Being the brunt of a joke is better than them threatening his life. These are small steps, but he tells himself to be content with those, to not bite off more than he can chew.

Which is exactly what he is doing right now.

Kieran stares at his feet, at the imprints his boots leave in the mud. There are several sets of tracks in the dirt from his pacing, shifting his weight, shuffling around in the same square foot of space. What the hell does he think he’s doing? If he still had a pocket watch, he could know just how long he has been standing here making an absolute fool of himself. But he doesn’t have his watch anymore; Bill took it off of him the moment they tied him up in the stables back in Colter. He is still a prisoner here, of sorts, and he needs to remember that because if he walks over there and talks to her then that might just be the end of everything.

But Mary-Beth is so pretty, and he might be scared, but that feeling falls away in the warmth of her hair shining in the sun. Take that back; he is scared.

He sucks in a breath, warm spring air hurting his lungs, and he takes a step forward. This is so stupid of him he might just throw up.

Mary-Beth glances up at his approach, a quick shift of her eyes and her posture straightening, but she looks right back to the book in her lap.

Kieran falters, but he walks into the shadow of the awning, tries to speak anyway. “Whatcha doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” She does not look up, and while her voice is dismissive, it is nowhere near as cruel as he had feared.

Of course, she is going to ignore him. Why would she bother talking to someone like him? He locks his knees to keep himself standing, refuses to sit on the crate next to hers without her offering, and he can feel his hands shaking against the pockets of his jeans. “Well…It uh, looks like you’re reading.”

“And I am. Why do you ask?”

Kieran shuts his eyes, brings up the last fragment of his confidence to try and apologize before he gives in to the temptation of running away. “I-I’m sorry. Was just trying to make conversation. Didn’t mean to bother you.”

Mary-Beth’s face crumples, only slightly, _pity_, and she reaches her hand out to him in the empty air. “I…I’m sorry. That was catty of me.” Kieran stills, and she looks away from him, “Don’t know why I said that.”

“I understand.” He offers, looks at the ground instead of the spray of freckles across her nose. She opens her mouth to say something but loses her voice after a syllable. Kieran’s heart races, and he has no idea where this burst of courage is coming from, this feeling of cold air and fire trickling through his veins, but he grabs ahold of it as best he can.

“You’re very pretty.” He winces to himself, keeps his eyes away from her, wishes he wasn’t standing over her like this. “I’m sorry. I’m not being forward or nothing, but you are.” One of the nearby horses whinnies in the noon day quiet, and Kieran chances a glance up.

Mary-Beth smiles to him, looks away, looks back, and her tone softens. “You’re very sweet…Strange and horrible and an O’Driscoll, but sweet.”

His lungs suck in a breath hard enough to make his nose hurt, and he forces down the frustration bubbling in his stomach. The men yell it at him all the time but hearing her speak it so softly hurts so much worse. “I…I’m not an O’Driscoll, Miss. I…” He trails off, knows he cannot claim he is anything but a stranger in their midst, a gamble of trust, an unknown that Mary-Beth has every right to be wary of. He isn’t anything. He feels his back bend until he cowers, as if she just punched him, and his voice lowers to a whisper he hopes she does not hear. “I’m not an O’Driscoll.”

Feet rooted to the ground, Kieran nearly stumbles when Mary-Beth speaks up, “You’re right. You’re not.” The surprise is enough to make him look up, catch her pretty blue eyes and get stuck in them. “Still a bit strange, though.” She laughs, dogwood petals drifting in the wind, but he cannot find anything mean sounding in it. Her body turns to face him, dainty hands shutting her book, and she pats at the crate opposite hers. The worry is gone from her face, but her eyes are still a bit tight. “I’m sorry if what I said was rude. Ought to get to know you before I say things like that. Heard you talking to Arthur the other day about the horses. It’s really good of you to treat them so well.”

Kieran’s throat itches like he swallowed ants, and he more collapses onto the crate than sits on it.

They talk for a while. It is no where close to easy, and Kieran keeps feeling like he needs to run off the cliff with how awkward his words feel. But Mary-Beth never tells him to leave, or acts like he is a horrible O’Driscoll. He rambles about horses for a while, apologizes when he realizes how long he’s been talking. She laughs and it is the best sound he has heard in a long time.

Mary-Beth gossips a bit, eyes lighting up with it, seems like Kieran in being the silent observer of the camp. “I know it’s been a few days, and things seem alright, but I don’t believe Arthur and Micah made up after that fight. Not one bit.”

“Why do you say that?”

Mary-Beth’s voice hushes, and Kieran leans in closer to hear her, tries to calm his breathing when she does the same. “Because I don’t think I’ve ever seen Arthur angry like that. I mean, I’ve seen him yelling and hollering, mostly at John, or Uncle, but never that…quiet. Looked like a storm cloud ready to burst. He’s seemed strange lately, don’t you think so?”

“I mean…you must know him better than I do.” Kieran knows this is dangerous ground, talking about the folks in the gang as if he is a part of it, so he tries to ignore the nervous beating in his chest and change the subject. If Arthur hears about Kieran talking behind his back, that might be the end of the small kindnesses. And besides, Kieran’s stomach clenches painfully at the thought of Mary-Beth leaning too close to him and catching a whiff of the horses he spends all of his time around.

“What book are you reading? What’s it about?” Mary-Beth’s cheeks blush and she mutters something about it being a romance novel. Her fingers clutch at the cover of the book, blue dyed linen spine in pale hands.

“It’s silly of me to be reading something this…indulgent, I suppose.”

“Not if it makes you happy. Ain’t silly to like something.” Her smile, bright and shining and tucked away against her shoulder, is worth all of the worry it took for him to sit down on this crate.

The camp sits quiet and still around them. Though Kieran keeps his eyes peeled for anyone making their way over, no one does. His spine remains tense, but no one chases him off.

“I mean…Some people might say it’s silly to treat the horses like I do but…I don’t see why. I been around them ever since I can remember. My family had a few, and then, after my parents died, I was too young to work so a stable put me up for a while-,” The admission comes out of his mouth before he can think better of it. Sad isn’t the right word for what he feels about his parents, but he tries to talk past it as though it is of little importance. Always seems that way with the weight of everything else on him. Boulders and boulders of things compared to a few pebbles. Mary-Beth’s face stills and her mouth frowns and he hates to be the reason for it. “I mean…that uh, that was a long time ago, though. Sorry. Didn’t mean to…Well, anyway, I suppose that’s why I…” Kieran’s words drift from his lungs into the wind, realizing she is not listening to him. Hell, he isn’t listening to himself either.

Mary-Beth’s eyes turn toward the cliffs, fading with the distance. “I lost my mama to typhoid. Was really young, too.”

They sit in that silence for a minute. Kieran thinks he is supposed to say something now, but he has no idea what. “I’m sorry.” His hands fidget, and he looks from Mary-Beth to the ground and back again. She looks up at him, close to saying something,

“Eh, O’Driscoll. You bothering her?” That is Javier’s voice, approaching fast from the direction of the main campfire, and Kieran bolts out of his seat. Sauntering walk, blue jacket the shade of a Stellar Jays tail feathers, and Kieran is backing up and away to try and avoid a fight. Out of all the men in camp, Javier is the most unpredictable as far as Kieran can tell. Quick enough with a knife to kill Kieran before he realizes. Cold enough to chill Kieran’s spine with a few words.

“Leave him alone, Javier. We were just talking.” May-Beth’s voice holds a spark in it, and Kieran’s stomach flips at the thought that she would defend him at all. Another little step.

“Didn’t look like just talking to me, Miss Gaskill.” Javier’s scowls, furrows around his mouth set as hard as concrete. He steps into Kieran’s space, slight frame taking up everything. “Well, O’Driscoll? Cat got your tongue?” Javier’s voice is a growl, a coyotes snarl, and he is too close, taking up too much space, too much pressure on the air trying to rasp into Kieran’s lungs.

Kieran stutters out, “I’m sorry. I’m…I’m sorry.” His face is red and his hands are shaking and he wishes he could say something that wasn't pathetic.

Javier’s face does something strange. The anger trickles away like a cup tipped over too far. He blinks a few too many times and looks a strange sort of confused.

“I’m sorry, Miss. Thank you for talking with me.” Kieran says to Mary-Beth before turning and walking away as fast as his feet can carry him. He hears some words, quiet, hissing ones, but he knows better than to linger and listen for what they might say.

It's good of Javier, or at least Kieran thinks so; no one in Colm’s gang acted this way, as if anyone mattered beyond their next payday. At least Javier is protective of these people, is wary of a new person being thrown into the mix. Nothing rude about it, just matter of fact. Like snake venom. Kieran cannot blame the man, and he doesn’t. It makes him want to prove himself just a touch harder. Maybe someday he can be a part of that.

He retreats to the horses, to the safety of their hides and hooves. At least this he knows. Knows how to pat Brown Jack’s shoulder without getting kicked, knows the distance it takes for the Count to reach out and nip. He knows where to step and when, and that feels so much easier than talking.

Branwen nickers to him, and Kieran settles into the gelding’s space as easy as breathing, taking a brush to his rump. “I know, I know, it was stupid.” The horse whickers, and Kieran rolls his eyes. “I made an ass of myself. Knew I would.” He keeps brushing, feeling as though the world around him is more empty air than anything else. So stupid to try and talk to her. Serves him right, and he knows he is lucky Javier didn’t follow through on his unspoken threats.

Something catches Branwen’s attention, the horse nickering a greeting and heaving a deep sigh, and when Kieran looks up, he sees Mary-Beth petting at Branwen’s forelock.

He drops the brush and scrambles to catch it, legs feeling weak and useless and frozen. His face burns with humiliation and fear and he’s not sure what else.

Mary-Beth hides a giggle behind her hand. “You sure are a strange one, Kieran Duffy.”

It, his whole name, strikes him dumb, and he can only stare as Mary-Beth keeps talking, eyes drifting to the other horses so as to not look him in the eye. “I’m sorry about Javier. He gets like that sometimes. I know he means well, but…” Her eyes drift away to the sway of sweet meadow grass dancing in the wind at the edge of the tree line. “And I’m sorry, too…about your parents, I mean.” Her lips press together, and she looks up to him. Calm blue eyes and a kind smile Kieran never thought would be turned to him. Branwen snuffles into her hand, and her nose scrunches up in trying to suppress another laugh.

“Well…thank you, Miss. Didn’t have to come all the way over here just to say that.”

“You came all the way over there to talk to me. Seemed like I could do the same. Ain’t a big camp, but it sure feels far, doesn’t it?” She scratches at Branwen’s ears, just where the horse likes it most, and Kieran can only nod to her, and feel some sort of distance in his chest ease and shorten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: I lied. This fix-it isn't about Arthur or Charles or even John. It's all for Kieran's sake. I fooled you, I fooled you all and you didn't even notice.


	15. Fool

Old Boy tends to ignore directions. Any time the horse is stubborn enough to not follow John's pull on the reins during a job, the others laugh like snickering coyotes. Funny thing that a horse could be just as stubborn and foolish and headstrong as his rider. Hosea likes to joke it is payback for all the trouble John has caused them over the years.

Now is no different. John tries to steer the stallion toward the buttes of Twin Stacks Pass, but the horse will not budge. He keeps on stamping his hooves into the powdery soil along the trail, his legs and shoulders steadfast as iron. John looks around them, not seeing or hearing anything that should make the animal act like this. Harsh sunlight glares down onto the brim of his hat, but it isn’t bad enough so he cannot see anything in front of him. The tops of the cliffs are covered in sagebrush and nothing else, no glinting rifle barrels, no bounty hunters silhouetted against the aching blue sky. This entire valley is just a mess of sagebrush and dusty orange rock. This far out of Valentine, the cliffs rise up high around him and the back of his neck prickles at the thought of being watched. He tries to spur Old Boy on, but the horse stands still, neck stiff and staring into the distance.

Something feels off in a strange way. Like finding an abandoned house on the plains with everything still in it. Open windows and dusty floors and long cold hearths but with food still in the pantry, pictures still on the walls. No blood or signs of struggle; just emptiness. Nothing to shoot at and nothing to blame for the unease, just a feeling of wrong. Uncle calls them ‘ghost houses’ and tried to goad John into walking into them more than a few times when he was younger. But all he needed was Hosea, Arthur, anyone, saying something didn’t feel right. That always felt like enough. A confirmation of his fears he was happy to listen to.

Now though, he is not sure what is happening. Old Boy refuses to move forward through the pass even though there is no threat, and nothing John does will motivate this damn horse. He rolls his eyes and slides down off the saddle, careful to not brush up against the bloody antelope carcass strapped to Old Boy’s rump. Maybe leading the horse through will be enough. Though he hopes the brute won’t take off running; would be just his luck to lose his horse, his supper, and his way back to camp. He grabs the reins and starts to pull, determined to head West through the canyon. And in the rattle of brush and the hiss of the wind over the valley edges he hears, too close,

“Hello there!”

John's heart stops and his hand moves to the pistol at his belt as he whirls around. The voice is a rasp in the desert heat, but it is behind him and he _knows_ he did not hear anyone approach behind him. He has not seen anyone, not a soul, for miles and miles out here. He spins on his heel and aims and there is an old man standing a few feet away. Too close. Standing at the roadside and leaning on a cane. Holding a large tin can in his hands. As if he was always there and John managed to miss him. But he knows he didn’t miss him.

The old man gives him a smile full of cracked or missing teeth. Blind eyes sit in the sunken hollows of a haggard face, forehead caked with lines of dust and dirt and what must be so much age. He is wearing a mess of different heavy coats with a tall travelling pack piled onto his back.

Seems like it would be hotter than hell under all that. At least that is what John thinks as he lowers his pistol.

“Ah, I see you’re new around these parts as well. I’m old around these parts. Blind Man Cassidy is my name. If you want your fortune told, I just ask for a bit of gold.” The old man holds out the coffee tin, empty and rusted. He smiles too wide, and something about the empty darkness of his missing teeth sets John’s spine on edge.

He is not superstitious. Never has been. Feels content to leave certain things alone. When Hosea tells ghost stories around the campfire, John doesn’t pay the tales much mind, not like Lenny and Sean do, gullible idiots that they are. Uncle's strange sayings and stories don’t always make much sense, so John tends to disregard those too. Even when John was younger, when Dutch would read from one of the books in his collection, old English stories full of ghosts and goblins, and his booming voice made some of the others shiver, John always thought those horrors lurking in the darkness were never really real. No use getting scared over things not there or that couldn’t hurt you.

But something about this sets his nerves on edge. Makes something cold coil around his spine. His guts tell him to run, to get back on Old Boy’s saddle and ride off as fast as he can. But the horse still hasn’t moved, and when John tries to will his legs into motion, he feels stuck. As if his boots are sitting in bog muck rather than desert sand. And the old man’s eyes, blind though they are, are digging into John, into his flesh and into the marrow of his bones.

Fearing something will happen if he tries to run, John tells himself to walk up to the old man, feet moving easy in a sudden release of tension John does not trust. Hand tensed into shaking, he reaches for his jeans pocket, pulls out the only money he has, a half-dollar coin, and drops it into the coffee can. The coin plunks and rattles against the bottom. “Sorry, Mister. It's all I’ve got.” John’s voice sounds so strange to him, so far away. Fear lodges in his throat, a tremble starts in his thighs and knees, yet it amounts to nothing as the blind man nods with a sad turn to his mouth.

“I understand, son. All the same, I thank you.” Cassidy stamps his cane into the dust beneath their feet, and his milky eyes stare into John, through his eyes and down into his lungs all the way to the soles of his feet. “If you run from the flames, they will find you, and consume you.” Wind passes between them, and John’s lungs are on fire from holding his breath. Cassidy’s fingers clutch tightly at the cane as he goes on. “Another fortune, for your honesty.” He blinks, and John feels lost in the mist of blindness haunting Cassidy’s sight. “There will come a day when you must rely on your brother. A day when you will make the choice to stand by his side, or his side, and push on through the flames. And if you should choose right, you will walk forward together.”

John’s feet itch to move, and he tries to so hard, but his legs feel locked in place. Nothing he does or thinks can make them move, and it makes his heart beat so rapidly in his chest he worries about it stopping all together. There is terror in his blood, so familiar yet so strange. It clogs his throat and settles over his tongue to muffle everything.

“No more fortunes for you! Another day, perhaps.” Cassidy grins again, gaze finally breaking from staring at John, milky eyes drifting to the nearby mountains over his shoulder.

The next moment, John finally wills his feet to run. He makes a mad dash for Old Boy’s saddle and climbs up as quick as he knows how. It is all a blur of spurs and Old Boy’s sudden neighing anger and the patter of hooves racing across desert hardpan.

Wind presses into his face, into the scars still healing over, and John breathes as deep as he dares to try and get the stink of fear out of his lungs. He tilts his head down and hides under his hat from the sun and the sky and the air. He wants so badly to look behind him, but he does not. Does not want to risk seeing something he is not meant to.

* * *

John feels like a fool. He thought it would be easy to shake off the old man's words, but they keep circling in his head like vultures. Because he wants to set them aside and forget about them so badly, but he feels a pit open up in his stomach every time he thinks of ignoring them.

Old Boy stopped running once they were past the Twin Stacks cliffs, calm and unruffled as if he felt none of the unease John did, and it is a testament to the horse’s good sense when he begins plodding toward camp without an ounce of direction from his rider.

John struggles to piece together what he just saw, heard, experienced. It was unlike anything he has ever felt in his life, even after all these years of travelling. He hasn’t felt terror like that since rope was strung around his neck back when Dutch first saved his skin. And all that talk of fire, flames, choosing who to stand with, it makes his throat hurt; all of that must have to do with the gang, has to, but they haven’t quite hit anything close to hellish flames just yet. And they won’t; Dutch will see them out of this.

_Rely on your brother._

With all the ill between them, John doubts he could rely on Arthur for much. Would probably get a wheezing laugh and some insults for his trouble if he tried. Too much space, too many unspoken words, and already too smoothed over with John’s apologies. He said he was sorry when he got back, years ago, but that hadn’t been enough for Arthur, so they sit in limbo. Hurts to think the man still refuses to forgive him over something John assumed Arthur would understand. But all this talk of flames, of choosing sides, makes John think he wants to go back to that, relying on a brother that was there for him in a strange way. Not like Dutch with his confident arrogance, not Hosea’s kindness tinged with harsh reality. Just a quiet presence Arthur tends to have, always there, like the sky. Not always calm, sometimes angry and raging like a snowstorm, but still there.

Landscapes pass by him as he thinks, over the railroad tracks and into the stands of trees scattered out from Caliban’s seat. Thick undergrowth and sunlight filtering through. Birds whistle above his head and a squirrel chitters at Old Boy’s stomping hooves. John finally feels his hands wake up and he grips the reins to pull Old Boy toward the hidden trail leading up to camp.

Bill calls out to him from the undergrowth, “Who goes there?” and John can only muster a passing wave to the man. His words feel too dry and brittle to make it out of his mouth.

Old Boy plods up the hill to camp and parks himself at the hitching post, waiting for John to dismount with a sort of patience John never understands. He’s a good horse, and John ought to treat him a little better.

Kieran walks over from one of the campfires, not quite so fast as he tends to, and takes over Old Boy’s reins. “Welcome back, Mr. Marston.” No smile, but the kid is not trembling either. Tense, maybe.

John frowns, and the movement pulls at his stitches. Feel like a patchwork man anymore. “Thanks.” Still an O’Driscoll, John reminds himself, even if there isn’t much heat behind the thought. He unhooks the rope keeping the antelope in place and hauls it over his shoulder to take to Pearson. He hopes blood does not seep into his shirt; Abigail will give him hell if he ruins another one.

“You alright, John?” Lenny calls to him, sitting on a crate close to the edge of camp and whittling at a piece of wood. Lenny’s eyes look at him too sharp and it makes John duck his head, makes him grunt out a “Fine” before walking off. It feels like his head isn’t quite set right, like he fell off his horse and now everything blurs if he moves too fast. Knows the feeling too well from years of breaking horses with Arthur laughing from the sidelines. Handing the antelope off to Pearson, waving off the token thanks the man says to all of them any time they manage to bring meat back to camp, John feels so strange.

Wants to sit down at the campfire and rub a hand over his face, stitches be damned, and drink a few beers until the day feels fuzzy.

Wants to go over to Dutch where he stands in the mouth of his tent and tell him the whole thing. Say it to someone who he knows will laugh the whole experience away, remind John how fortune tellers make their money, how they trick people and spin webs of lies to fool them into fear. There would be a frown at losing the money to something so foolish, but he would get a slap on the back and a reminder to go eat something after a day like this one.

Wants to lumber over to where Hosea sits with Jack under the shade of the trees, reading, and take over for the old man. Jack would look up at John as if he isn’t real, like the wisps of embers flitting up the column of a bonfire. And Hosea would smile in that grim, sad way of his, and let him – let John make one more mistake for his own good.

The worst part of it is how much John knows he could. Could walk over to the boy and offer to read with him, free up Hosea’s time and make Abigail happy for once. That little flickering thing in John’s chest would light up, bright and warm, even though his nerves would be itching to run and hide.

But he doesn’t. He turns away and wanders to the edge of camp, the cliffs looking out over the Dakota. Sitting on the edge, looking out over the river canyon, watching flocks of birds pass by for a while, makes some of the unease in his skull calm down. His hands shake when he holds them in the open air, and he balls them into fists with frustration. Just an old man’s words, nothing to bother himself with, nothing to worry over.

He hears someone walk out toward the cliffs and sit some distance away, behind him and not too close. His gut tingles with fear at someone being so close, seeing him like this. Then John smells it, the pungent scent of cigarette smoke on the air. He glances back behind him, already knowing who, and the sight of Arthur’s downturned hat, a trail of smoke drifting from underneath it, is too comforting to describe. The man is hunkered down against one of the Scotch Pines at the corner of camp, sitting there with his journal on his knee and a pencil in hand.

John looks away, back to the river down below, and tries to ignore the instinct to get up and talk with Arthur, sit down closer to him and let all of this out. It’s what he would have done, years ago, back before Jack was born and things made sense in the world. Arthur would scoff, call him a fool, and offer him a cigarette. Easy as breathing, easy as soft whipped clouds drifting across the sky.

John licks his tongue over the back of his teeth. Feels his lungs expand with words. So many words he could let loose. But he doesn’t. He sits there, in the warmth of the sunshine with the smell of Arthur’s cigarette on the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: I hope you have a good day. Or, if not good, at least okay. <3
> 
> Happy Holidays Ya'll!


	16. Horseshoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some small bits and pieces too short to be their own chapters, not connected to each other and in no particular order. Just some housekeeping before moving on. As always, thanks so much for reading ❤

Arthur changes. It is a slow thing, and not an easy one, like a snail climbing up tree bark. Like trudging through snow caked with ice. He is still not sure if what he is doing is right, but on the days he does, it sure feels alright.

* * *

Arthur hears a commotion across camp, an angry voice, Williamson, “Don’t you disrespect me, boy! I don’t like your attitude.” And Lenny’s reply, a careless laugh to the sound, “Well okay then.”

It is a familiar noise in camp, a careless, drunken fight in which no one ever really gets hurt, but Arthur stands up from the campfire and walks over without thinking. He sees Bill push Lenny to the ground, a rough shove that nearly topples Bill over too, and feels a quiet sort of anger take hold of him. A stampede of cattle approaching on the horizon. Arthur stalks to where Bill stands above Lenny as if he is just a cornered rabbit, easy to scare.

Arthur grabs at Bill’s shirt collar and hauls him back, feels the stitching rip against the edge of his fingernails. “You shut your mouth, Williamson.”

The words are too harsh, and he regrets them in the next moment. Bill scrambles away from him, face turning ugly with hurt and rage. A cloud of beer sits on the man’s breath, and the scuffle that follows is Arthur’s own fault. He knows Lenny can handle himself, but that does not mean he should have to. Should not have to live in fear in camp, should not have to put on a front of being unruffled by it all. At least that is what he says to Lenny later, nursing a bruised jaw and ignoring Bill’s stink eye from across camp. Bastard shouldn’t be drinking so early anyway.

Lenny shakes his head, rolls his eyes, “I can handle Bill, Arthur. Always have. I appreciate it, but don’t trouble yourself with his bull. I can fight my own battles just fine.”

Arthur looks up at him, the bright orange of his bandana in the afternoon sun, and nods. “Yeah I…alright. I’m sorry, Lenny. I just…”

“I know. But the world goes on, Arthur. It always does.” Lenny’s eyes look a touch too careless for Arthur’s liking as the young man walks away, leaving Arthur to worry and clean mud off of his bruised, flaring knuckles.

* * *

Now that the law is so determined to find the gang, the girls ride off to town as a group whenever they can escape Miss Grimshaw’s attention and convince someone to take them. Back in Blackwater it was easy for them to go in pairs on horseback by themselves, but now with so many threats around, Dutch told them to bring someone with a gun along, for their own safety of course. Today, a bright May day, it is Javier and Hosea offering to escort them. Javier offers a hand to helps the girls up the wagon steps. Hosea claps the reins against the horses, and they are off and moving.

Molly watches them from the shade of Dutch’s tent, her tent, and clutches her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Even with spring moving through the Heartlands the shadow of the canvas still brings a chill to her skin, makes gooseflesh raise up on her arms. She watches them ride off, hears them laughing, Karen giving a whooping holler as the wagon wheels bounce along the track leading out of camp.

It itches under her skin, and she does her best to ignore it. It’s not that she misses riding off with the others, watching them steal from unsuspecting pockets or drag too-eager men into hotel rooms or down back alleys. Because she doesn’t miss that. Does not miss the warmth of the other girls beside her, talking and laughing with them. No reason to, now that she has Dutch. No reason at all.

She watches for a while until the wagon is long gone down the path to Valentine, the women’s laughter, their singing, long gone. The chill of the shade gets to her and she shivers, turns back toward her things and grabs a book to go read in the sunlight looking out over the river.

Dutch stands there in the sunlight peaking past the awning of the tent, arms crossed and stance strong. Molly smiles at his turned back, leans into his space as she walks past him.

“I love you, Dutch.” She says into the space close to his ear, brushing a kiss against his cheek as she moves past.

There is a pause as she moves away, and for a moment she wonders why he has not said anything, when his deep voice follows after her, “Thank you, my dear.”

It is enough to make her heart patter against her ribs, enough to drown out the flutter of canvas tents in the wind, and nearly enough to let her ignore the dirt clinging to her shoes the moment she steps outside.

* * *

When Arthur finds the remains of Limpany, just down the hill from camp, he assumes he won’t find much of anything. The burnt-out town is eerie to walk through, ashes kicking up under his boots. Rain has tamped them down some, made the top of them thick and sludgy like swamp muck, but under the surface the ashes are a fine powder that clings to his boots, jeans, hands, everything.

He searches the buildings, picks through the bones, sure someone else has already scavenged the place clean, but he was on his way back from tracking a bounty out of Strawberry anyway. Couldn’t hurt.

The houses are empty shells, blackened boards barely strong enough to stand up to the wind. He kicks through a few of them, looking for chests or anything of value. Just like Dutch and Hosea taught him. The general store, at least that is what he figures it is, sits too collapsed in on itself for him to get inside very easily, and he stays out of it, feeling a tickle on the back of his neck. Could crawl over a few beams and venture up the blackened stairs, but his instincts have saved his skin too often to ignore them now.

By the time he makes it to the Sherriff’s office at the end of the road, he has yet to find a damn thing. The floorboards creak and shudder as he steps inside, searches the desks, and stares through the iron bars of the jail cells. A skeleton, a blackened husk of a corpse, lies burnt in each cell. He turns away and tries to stop thinking.

A lockbox sits under the heaviest of the desks, and it looks largely untouched by the flames. He drags it out and pulls out his hunting knife, jamming it into the hinge and hoping the brittle metal gives.

It does and there is a bar of gold sitting on a bed of cash inside the box and Arthur’s heart forgets to beat.

He cannot remember the last time he saw this much money in front of him. So much money and potential. His mind swirls, rushes, caught in a storm with wind whipping from all sides. The act of wrapping the gold in a handkerchief, setting it and the cash in his satchel, and returning to Rosie grazing at the Dakota river shoreline, is all far beyond him. He settles in the saddle, directs Rosie back up to camp, and his hands grip the reins too hard.

The camp needs money. They need money to keep everyone fed, to keep them armed, to keep the worst of sickness at bay. But Arthur’s mind runs.

_Leave._

It runs through his mind, a runaway train steaming and broiling down the tracks. Writing that word down in his journal might have been the dumbest mistake he has made in a long time. Might have felt alright at the time, made him feel a touch better about all of this, but now all he can think is what it would take to get his family away from here, how much this gold could help, how much his stomach _burns_ at the thought of lying to Dutch.

He feels drunk, in a haze, and time passes in a fuzzy sort of way.

Standing at the ledger, at the camp funds box, he cannot for the life of him remember walking over here, where he hitched Rosie, how long he has been standing here. Staring at this book and the box he has known for so many years and the rough canvas of Dutch’s tent right in front of his nose. The campfires crackle and somewhere not far off he hears Uncle’s banjo twanging. He reaches out and opens the ledger, feels the softness of its paper against his fingers. Years and years of jobs, takes, blood. The lists of names and numbers, contributions from the past few days. Turns the page to see the list of things they need for camp, scribbled in Hosea’s messy handwriting, and Dutch’s neat scrawl, respectively – restocking medicine, produce for next weeks meals – bear pelt blankets and a new rug for Dutch’s tent, more oil for the lanterns. Arthur’s brow draws down and he stares at the words for a long time. Certainly never devoted enough thought or care to how much that difference _should_ bother him.

_You must save them._

Arthur digs into his satchel, feels the weight of the gold bar brush his knuckles, and brings out a wad of cash, a good twenty dollars from the Sheriff’s lockbox, and throws it into the funds box before relatching it. He walks to his lean-to, feels the weight of the gold bar sitting over his shoulder like an iron ball at the end of a prison shackle.

The contents of his stomach try to come up, but he shoves it down. He holds onto the strap of his satchel, desperate and clinging. He will not lose this, will not set it down, will not let it out of his sight, not until he has a safe place to hide it. Keeping it in his trunk sets his nerves scattering, like ants running from a flood of spilt water. No place in camp would be safe enough, nothing is secure in this life, so he’ll have to look elsewhere. With how often the gang breaks into them, he doesn’t trust a bank to keep this safe, not at all. He thinks of giving it to Dutch for safekeeping, just as he has for years and years, and would have if not for that rasping voice of a supposedly blind man all those weeks ago. He pulls the thought back as if he’s been burned because _the devil_. His stomach nearly sicks up again and he nearly lets it.

Maybe a lockbox hidden in a cave somewhere, in one of the mountains at the edge of the northern Grizzlies. So long as it stays out of sight, well hidden, and he can get to it, this dream of his might be safe. So long as he can find the money again when he needs it, when _Leave_ isn’t just a word on a page.

* * *

Finding the gold bar in Limpany does it, sparks something. Arthur sees the carrot strung on the end of the stick, the hope of it, and starts chasing for all he’s worth.

He hunts for treasure, for money, and finds it in some of the strangest places. At the bottom of forgotten mine shafts, and in the old, gnarled trunks of long dead trees. It takes treasure maps to find those, and he is never sure if the people who give him those maps know just what they have. Not to mention how hard he scoffs the first time he hears the words ‘treasure map’. But he also finds things in the curiosity of happenstance, in the kindness of a stranger’s generosity.

In trying to change, he helps folks when he can. Broken down wagons and run off horses along the roadside, and those people give what they can. Old rings and watches, bundles of cash Arthur knows feels too heavy for just taking someone home. One old man with shining spectacles passes something into Arthur’s hand, careful to keep it hidden, and that bank note keeps the camp provisioned for weeks.

Not that he puts money in the box all at once. He has always trusted Dutch with the gang’s money – the savings he stashes away for them have pulled them out of bad binds so many times over – but Arthur feels a paranoid fear about it now. Irrational, but still makes him feel like there is something caught in his throat. A bone maybe. So, he contributes in chunks, just enough to keep them comfortable. It takes time, long rides, the hard work of trying to remind himself why he is doing this. Cassidy’s voice is never far off in Arthur’s mind, _If you care for them you will fight for them_, and he finds himself resenting the old man less and less.

In all of that, he finds some things too precious to sell.

In an abandoned house on the plains he finds a book for Jack, pages bright with knights and dragons. When Arthur gives it to him, the boy’s face lights up like the flash of dynamite, and his voice pulls at something in Arthur’s heart. “Thank you, Uncle Arthur!” Arthur pats the boy’s head, wanders away, nods in a haze when Abigail catches him later, “Thank you, Arthur.”

In the ruins of a farmhouse he finds an old writing desk. The thing is half rotted, but it holds some money, some jewelry, and a quill pen in its own little case. Feather shining dark and blue like a starless sky. He knows just what to do with it, but his ears burn when he walks across camp with it, finds Mary-Beth reading under one of the wagon canopies and hands the case over to her. “Afternoon, Miss Gaskill. Found something I thought you might like.” He tips his hat, walks away with his cheeks burning. Hopes she does not think it means anything more than it does. She finds him later, tells him “Thank you, Arthur. It writes like a dream.” And her smile is like the warmth of sunlight leaking through poppy flower petals.

In moments of weakness, he will buy a bag of candy from the general store every now and then. Penny candy isn’t worth much on its own, but he finds it easy to hand out to folks. A little thing, like fluffy rabbit kits curled up in tall grass. Jack smiles so small and takes such a long time to pick a handful of favorites from the paper bag. The girls laugh at him at first, so taken aback that he would offer, but Mary-Beth smiles and Karen’s hand thumps strong and happy against his back when they thank him for the sweets. Javier and Sean stare blankly at him from across the campfire, but Hosea gives a whooping laugh before stealing the bag from him, digging into it until he finds his favorite licorice drops hiding at the bottom.

It is small things, he realizes, that make the fortune, the chilling words, sting just a bit less.

* * *

John manages to bring in a decent take, robbing a payroll wagon headed out for a mining town north of Saint Denis. He counts out his money and sets the rest in the camp box, marks the numbers in the ledger with slow, careful pencil marks.

Hosea, sitting at the game table and not looking up from his book, calls over to him, “Well, how’d you do?”

“Did alright. Only two guards on the wagon. Should be enough to stock up at the general store next week.”

“Good, good.” Hosea’s praise makes John feel more comfortable in his skin and he goes to sit with the old man. In pulling out the chair opposite him, Arthur walks past them, on some errand out of camp, but he pauses long enough to meet John’s eye, to let his face relax enough to get close to smiling.

“Good job, Marston.” He pats a hand on John’s shoulder, grip firm and nothing like the blow John expects. His brother walks away, to the horses and the dusty road beyond, and John stands, unsure. The praise settles in his stomach like the coolness of peppermint candy.

“Funny, isn’t he?” Hosea’s voice breaks the haze. He’s leant back in his chair, book shut, eyes keen.

“Why is he doing this all of a sudden? Thought he hated my guts.” John’s shoulders bow in. He wants to walk away from this but feels the heaviness of air weighing down his steps. So, he sits down, takes off his hat and pushes his hair away from his face.

“I think he still does. But something happened in our dear Arthur’s head. I’m not too sure what, but whatever it was it told him to try and be nicer. Certainly seems to be trying when it comes to you, that’s for sure.” He expects Hosea to laugh, that dusty, carefree one he uses on a whim. But he just stares at John, as patient as the world.

_There will come a day when you must rely on your brother._ Old Man Cassidy’s words still run through his head sometimes and he hates them. Never asked for them, does not need them to know his relationship with Arthur is unsteady.

“Oh, so you call that nice?” It’s an excuse and it pulls, tugs, like the scars along his cheek.

“Recognize olive branches when they are handed to you, son. Arthur is trying. I suggest you try as well.” Easy for Hosea to say. John scoffs, looks to the mud under his boots, feels Hosea’s eyes drill into him. But he knows that trick, and he will not look up.

Wishes he’d never heard those words.

* * *

Charles knows himself. Knows what to expect from himself, from the world. He knows the anger of blood on his hands, knows the fear of running without a place to go or return to, knows the beauty of silence. It is a certainty that gives him strength when he needs it.

But he is not sure what to expect from Arthur. At times it seems simple; a nervous man afraid to show emotion or anything contradicting the wolf pelt Dutch has raised him to wear. At other times he is a grim outlaw hardened by all that life has thrown at him, the wolf the gang needs. Some days it is a freely given smile, others a hidden glance from underneath his hat.

Charles walks back to his tent after having his morning coffee, intent on taking Taima out for a ride and some fresh air. A bundle sits on his bedroll, tucked into the corner of the tent he has claimed for himself.

It is a bundle of feathers, the flight feathers of a hawk. The plumage is a warm amber, already trimmed down to the best length for fletching arrows. A paper sits tucked in with the string, curled up underneath the twine.

Charles stares at the bundle a moment, unsure of what he will find on the note, but when he unfurls it, he wonders why he hesitated. The drawing is crinkled, but Charles sees the careful pencil strokes that make up the bird, the proud curve of its head, sharp beak, eyes alight with life.

Suppose he really doesn’t know what to expect from Arthur.

He stares for a moment, unsure of himself, and then he smiles.

* * *

Arthur tells himself he won’t make a habit of this. But if he thinks about that fortune one more time, thinks of _the devil_ and_ ash _and _blood _and _bone _and _Leave_ then he feels like his insides might just explode. The nightmares get him at night, chilling visions that leave him sweating and holding back screams. No one has commented on the bruise purple hollows under his eyes, the product of too many sleepless nights and too many days kept from camp on his desperate hunt for money across the Heartlands. But he knows that silence will not last for too much longer; as much as he loves them, his family is a nosy bunch.

He finds Uncle napping propped up against one of the boulders around camp, a big lump of granite that looks about as comfortable to sleep on as a rock could be. Arthur’s insides squirm at the thought of making a fool of himself, but he walks over anyway. Seems to get easier to ignore that feeling the harder he tries.

“Mind if I join you?” Arthur tries to keep his voice calm, but Uncle flinches anyway, startles out of his sleep and almost scrambles up to standing before the words seem to sink in.

“Now see here, I was just…wait what?” Uncle squints up at him. Arthur sits down beside him, settles against the boulder. The stone is sun-warm against his back.

“Figured you could show me a thing or two about taking a nap in the middle of the day, seeing as you’re so good at it.” Arthur does not want to look over, does not want to deal with any of this. But the pause goes on too long and he just wants to sleep without feeling alone.

Uncle is staring at him, eyebrows so furrowed they nearly hide his eyes. “Who are you and what in the Sam-hill have you done with Arthur Morgan?”

“Oh, shut up.” Arthur grumbles. He pulls his hat down over his eyes and leans back, settles into the warmth of the sunlight and the sounds of another day in camp. He never appreciated this before, the noise of life going on around him.

Arthur expects Uncle to get up and walk away, complain about people interrupting his important thinking time as he goes, but he doesn’t. He sits back down, making a great deal more noise than any person should need to just to sit down. “You are one strange man, Arthur Morgan. Thought a miserable bastard like you would never stoop so low. Now let the tension out of your shoulders or you’ll wake up with an awful tweak in your neck.”

* * *

“Mama, can I go into town with Pa? He says we need to get things for camp from the general store.” Jack’s smile is blinding, a grin Abigail could not say no to for anything. His words make her heart worry, but the pain of telling him no overshadows the pain of her heart’s old breaks.

“Well, alright. But you be good. Listen to John.”

“Okay! Bye Mama!”

John has been doing better with Jack. No, better isn’t quite the right word. More that he’s not doing quite as bad as he used to. Doesn’t ignore him so much anymore. Tries to talk to him sometimes, although the few times Abigail has heard those attempts it has been obvious how out of his element John is, how afraid he is of not knowing what to do. But its better.

Jack races away from her, flapping coat sleeves and too big shoes slapping against dew heavy grass. He clambers up the wagon wheel and sits down on the bench. John turns back to look at Abigail, and she plasters a stern look onto her face, as thick and heavy as she can manage. John’s shoulders flinch, and he nods to her before he turns away, taking up the wagon reins and calling to the horses. Jack waves to her over the back of the wagon, and the tree line swallows them up so fast.

Abigail feels her heart leap into her throat, and it takes everything in her soul to keep her two feet on the ground. Bringing a hand up to the necklace around her throat, the silver drop at the end of the thin chain, she allows herself a moment to worry before she turns back to her chores. Anything to keep her mind busy until they ride back to her. Because they will, her boys will ride back to her, she knows they will.

* * *

Lenny whittles at a piece of scrap wood in his spare time. He has never liked whittling; always thought of it as a waste of time and energy and patience. At least when Charles carves at a piece of wood or bone or whatever else the man drags to camp, he can make something from it, a design or a figurine that makes little Jack’s face light up. Lenny never knows what to carve out of the wood and it makes him feel silly to do something so unproductive.

But if he sits in just the right spot, near the horses and close to Marston’s tent, he has a clear view of the forest leading into camp. It is a vantage point he found one day and kept returning to. Whittling a piece of wood keeps his hands busy, makes it look as though he has something to do. Reading is better, but after too long his fingers shake and jitter, too much energy, so he whittles. At first it was to keep an eye on Kieran, then to help with camp watches, sometimes to keep an eye on Jack while the kid plays in the shadow of the tree line.

Now, Lenny sits here and keeps track of the comings and goings of Micah Bell.

He did not plan to do this. Did not think much of the idea at first. But now he keeps a scrap of paper in the binding of his book, a pencil always in his pocket. Just in case. Scrawling notes of time of day and what direction he returns from and how the man acts. Just in case.

This too feels ridiculous; it isn’t as if he will catch Micah doing anything, and Lenny himself is often out of camp or just plum not paying attention besides. He has to sleep sometime. But he does it anyway when he can. Because the more he thinks about it, the more it worries him. Worries him like Arthur seems to be worrying nowadays.

Arthur looked so serious in that saloon, drinking a beer he did not want to order and listening to things he did not want to hear. No one wants to hear of a man like Micah betraying them. If he even is. And Arthur kept to his word, broke Micah out of jail, but Lenny feels the tension now, the hiss of a dynamite fuse working its slow way toward a boom.

The raspberry leaves whisper, and Micah’s horse, Baylock, saunters out of the trees. A mean, rude sort of horse, Baylock only answers to Micah – like the Count in a way, but with none of the elegance. The horse unsettles Lenny and he doubts he is alone in that; Baylock’s eyes are a too bright blue set against dark hide, pits of fathomless ice to drown in, choking and sputtering.

Lenny casts his eyes down to the wood and knife in his hands, scrapes at the fibers a touch more and listens. Micah dismounts from his horse with a gruff sound, spits into the dirt. He whistles, a cheerful, light tune that does not fit with the man’s usual demeanor at all.

Lenny peaks a look up, watches Micah brush at Baylock’s coat. Thick, reddish mud caked at the horse’s legs, scarlet dust puffing off his haunches under the brush bristles.

The piece of kindling in Lenny’s hands is nearly gone, a pile of shavings between his boots, by the time Micah finishes with Baylock. The man turns the horse loose with the herd, laughs when Baylock nips at Old Boy, and saunters over to Pearson’s wagon to demand a supper that still won’t be done for a few hours.

Lenny remains where he is, sets his whittling aside, brings out his book, and on his scrap of paper writes, _May 23. Before supper time. Whistling. Red dust/mud. Lemoyne?_

* * *

Jack rushes up to him one day in camp, handing over a piece of paper with a crude drawing of a horse, and says, “I made this for you, Uncle Arthur.” And Arthur nearly cries.

The boy does not see; too nervous himself and staring into the ground at Arthur’s boots. So fearful; not of anger but of blankness, of indifference. Arthur does his best to swallow down the feelings, unnamed and so much.

“Thank you, Jack.”

Jack smiles. Sunlight filtering through sunflower petals. There is a gap in his front teeth, one of the baby ones fallen out, and Arthur remembers Isaac’s smile for a moment too long.

Abigail sees the tears, hears them in Arthur’s voice, because of course she does. She covers her smile with a tactful hand and leads Jack away, blue eyes meeting Arthur’s with an emotion he does not recognize.

When he tacks the drawing up by his cot, smooths the edges of the paper down against the wood, he feels something strengthen in him, makes his lungs feel like they are made of iron.

* * *

Robbing always gives him courage. The rush of it in his blood, the clear air in his lungs like nothing else, it makes the sun shine and his ears ring. Gunfights make his heart race, and his hands shake, but he would not trade that rush for nothing.

But trying to imagine that rush is not helping Sean near as much as he hoped it would. She sits on a fallen log overlooking the cliffs, the Dakota, the warmth of a fading sunset.

“Alright, Sean. Go talk to her. Its just Karen, you big lout.” He says it, in the shadows of one of the wagons and under his breath so no one will hear. But his feet stay rooted to the ground. He tells himself to go talk to her, ask her something, anything, but his insides feel all squirmy.

Javier always talks about this like it is easy. Walk right up to a lady and say whatever she wants to hear most. And Sean may be young, but he has seen enough to know that talking to women is only easy when you don’t care about mucking it up, when nothing will be hurt by their rejection but his own pride. And Sean does not want to muck this up.

Arthur made this look so easy too. Not the women part, the old bastard is about as suave as a mud-covered pig, but he’s alright at this talking about his feelings business. All that nonsense about how he feels and what he thinks and how important things are. A part of Sean wishes he had been drunker that night of the party so he could imagine that conversation never happened. The rest of him holds onto those words like they are the only thing to keep him breathing.

Sean stares at his boots, at the mud caked under them. It all sounds nice in his head when he thinks it, but it is hard to get the words out. And what if she doesn’t care to listen to him? What if his words come out and they don’t matter?

He starts walking over to her before he can think himself into another circle. It isn’t the MacGuire way to think things through so hard and he ought to just go, leap, try. His footsteps make her turn her head, and he steels himself, “Evening, Miss Jones. Fine night isn’t it?” he sits on the log beside her. Reminds himself to keep his eyes away from her chest; last time she slapped him.

“Sean. What are you doing?” Her brows draw down and Sean wonders if he hopes for it hard enough the earth will open up and swallow him.

“I just…uh well…” He feels so unsure, choked out with it.

“Well, what is it with you? Cat got your tongue?”

“Don’t want to say anything stupid is all. Ain’t worth making you listen to my rambling.” His voice is quieter than he means it to be.

Expects a laugh, a barb, but she leaves his pathetic words alone. “Well just say it. Don’t think it to death.” Karen says, takes a swig from the bottle in her hand, and the sway of her hair makes Sean stare for a moment.

“I think you’re beautiful. And not just your looks. I mean, you are. Beautiful that is. But you…you make things feel alright. But still make my heart jump and my hands get all sweaty.” Karen wrinkles her nose at that, but she smiles, blue eyes in the dark like the hottest part of a flame. “Never know how to say it. Or what to say.”

Her smile fades, and something darker fades in over her eyes. “Thought you didn’t want nothing from me. Made yourself pretty clear last time.”

Last time. That party, the firelight, a party for him, _for him_. He remembers how sad he felt even with just getting back, even with the whiskey in his gut. Felt too sad to sing with the others, too sad to join Karen in the tent when she drew him away from the firelight.

Because he did not want her to see his ribs stick out against his skin. Did not want the pity in her eyes when she sees the cigarette burns scarred across his stomach. Did not want her skin to shiver at the feeling of rough patches along his fingers, where those bounty men grazed a hot fire poker. Did not want her to hear, feel, or see him wince at a stray touch to the bruises along his back, probably as yellow as mustard flowers with how much they ached. Walking away felt easier so he did. Walking away feels like it would be easier than slogging through this too.

“Didn’t mean it like that. Just felt…a lot happened that day.” He does not go into how much his skin stung at the idea of someone touching him, does not dare let that out of his mouth. Things feel better now, but it was just too close back then.

Karen rolls her eyes, gets up from the log in a swish of skirts. There is a pinch at the bridge of her nose and Sean has no idea what that means. Is she angry with him? What did he say wrong this time? “Well, don’t leave a lady hanging next time, alright? Night, Sean.”

She walks off back towards camp, back to the wagon where the women sleep.

“Goodnight, my dear beauty!” He calls it after her, unsurprised when she does not turn back or say anything in return. He is not quite sure what just happened, knows that was not how he imagined it going. Although things rarely go how he wishes they would. So, he contents himself with watching the moon for a while, skin feeling too raw to get up and walk back to his tent.

* * *

“Arthur I…I feel as though I’ve missed something.” Dutch watches Arthur’s weight shift from foot to foot. He had rejected the offer of a chair and chose to stand in the mouth of the tent, looking ridiculous for the sake of his stubbornness. His mouth curls to the side as he bites at the corner of his lips.

There is that nervous tic again, that habit of Arthur’s to bite at the corner of his lip until it bleeds. Granted, the boy has had that tic ever since they picked him up all those years back, but this is one always brought on by something. Some stress too heavy for Arthur’s mind and shoulders to bear. Once upon a time, back when Arthur was just a boy, that was every time they planned a heist. The boy would work himself into a nervous mess before a shot was even fired. After years of this life it takes a great deal more than that to bring out this sort of behavior. John’s leaving did it all those years back.

“Ah. Ain’t nothing for you to worry over, Dutch.” Arthur’s voice sounds the same as it always does, but there is something else to it, and Dutch promised himself he would figure out what it is. For the sake of his son, and how much they have been through, he needs to figure out just where this went sideways. The past few times he has really spoken with Arthur have been awful conversations, like being dragged through mud. He wants to think they were necessary, chances to air out some unspoken things that have been between them since they rode down the mountains from Colter.

“Well whatever ‘it’ is, it’s certainly enough for _you_ to worry over. Son, I haven’t seen you this distracted over something in a long time.” He could bring up John’s leaving and how heart wrenching that was for Arthur, could bring up that woman and her child that Arthur never quite moved on from. But he does not dare bring up any of it because he knows Arthur well enough to see how thin his skin is right now; how moody he has become in the past month or so. Saying those things would be too much, a too heavy weight on an already tipping scale. And all from what? Why?

Arthur walks away from him anyway, “I’ll talk to you later, Dutch.” He says it over his shoulder, walking away to join the others at the evening campfire.

Dutch reaches a hand out, nearly says something to stop Arthur, but pulls back and closes his mouth.

* * *

The day starts with a stagecoach robbery and that is exactly how Charles expects it to end. A two-man job, routine, nothing exciting about it. Arthur handles the money and shouting threats, Charles handles holding the driver at gun point. They work well together, and when the coach rides off, Arthur calls a, “Well done. Nice take from this one.”

Charles expects Arthur will toss over a portion of the money, say something about riding back to camp separately, or maybe together if his mood is high enough.

Arthur coughs and struggles with his words before asking Charles in a halting voice if he wants to go on a hunt, see about tracking some boar up near Mount Hagen. The camp is doing alright, and they don’t need to get the money back right away. Arthur’s been meaning to get a few more pelts together, see about making some improvements around camp. The words are accompanied with Arthur staring into Rosie’s saddle horn to keep his eyes under the brim of his hat.

They don’t ride back to camp.

Instead, they ride west across the Dakota. Pine trees rise around them and the distant howl of a wolf sounds comforting in its strange, familiar way. The road they’re on runs alongside Stark Ridge, the fields of lupines still standing tall. Close to so much and yet so far away.

When they set up camp for the night, Arthur starting a fire and Charles hunting a few rabbits in the dying light of the sunset, Charles feels struck with the uncertainty of what to expect from Arthur. He wonders about Arthur’s journal, if the man has sketched anything since the last time Charles flipped through its pages under this same sky. But he will not ask, will never ask; content to listen.

Conversation is quiet and comfortable, but Charles expects nothing less. He feels this fuzzy sensation underneath his ribs, and he is not blind to how hard Arthur is trying to hide his own version of it. Or that is his own wishful thinking, hopeless, a path of thought he is willing to drown in.

Settling down for the night, their bedrolls are close. Charles wants to reach out and touch. His mind whispers that he could, willow tresses in a spring breeze. Could, but he can’t. Not with the weight of the world sitting on Arthur. It is a weight Charles has seen before, a heavy burden settled on the shoulders of men and women and everyone in between. A routine of pushing away thoughts and feelings, or hiding a part of themselves for fear of what it could bring.

Charles does not care for the opinions of others, certainly not those aimed at him, hasn’t for a long time, but he knows they mean something to Arthur. Mean something that would make Arthur flinch away from Charles’ hand, a mix of fear and shame in the orange burn of firelight Charles doubts Arthur would be able to explain. A terror of warm touches and flutters in his chest, knowing the world would be so unkind because of them.

He wonders if Arthur is lying so close and thinking, wishing, the same. The same sad, stupid hopes.

The night sky drifts above them, a few wisps of clouds lingering around the moon, and Arthur’s voice breaks the quiet, tentative, as if Charles does not want to hear his voice. “How do you know when you done right?” Something in Arthur’s voice aches, the rasp like a broken bone mending.

“I think you’re asking the wrong man.” Charles does not mean for his voice to be as dark as it is, but the glow of the stars overhead is loud in the emptiness.

“Charles. You are a good man. The best I’ve met in a long time. Ain’t no reason I can see for you to think you ain’t good.” Arthur sounds close to getting up, leaning over and looking Charles in the eye to make him believe it.

“You haven’t known me for that long.” Charles says it with ease, with practice, hopes it is enough to keep Arthur in his bedroll and not looking over at him.

Arthur pauses, a moment to linger on just how long they have known each other, how much mistrust should still be between them. But that wariness is long gone. “Don’t need to. Been in this life too long to miss the good in you.”

Charles feels struck with Arthur's words. Part of him wants to rush up and make him take back those words. Not sure how though. “If you’re so certain of seeing that in me then you ought to be able to see it in yourself.” Crickets chitter, the fire crackles by their feet. Charles wonders if that was too much, too strong, though it serves him right for saying whatever came to mind.

“Thank you, Charles. You’re a good friend.”

Even in Arthur’s guarded tone, Charles hears just a smidgen of that thing he has felt for a while now, that draw between the two of them, that warmth that feels so hard to not reach out for. “That’s good to hear from a man like you.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Just mean you’re a decent man. Even with all of your bluster.”

“A blustering fool. That’s me.”

Charles hums, lets his words die in his throat, smiles at the snort of laughter Arthur lets loose. “You’re a good friend too.”

Everything quiets and Charles can hear Arthur’s smile from here, can see it in the shine of the stars over their heads, “Thank you, Charles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Facts:  
\- Need some Karen/Sean vibes? Might I suggest “Outnumbered” by Dermot Kennedy? Good tunes, good vibes.  
\- That bit of Dutch telling Molly ‘thank you’ after she says she loves him is a canon interaction and the first time I heard it. I. Was. Furious. How dare he disrespect such a Queen like that.  



	17. Fishing

Terror leaps into Arthur’s throat so hard it nearly knocks him over on his ass. The burble of the Dakota, Jack’s high voice, the sounds of a calm spring fishing trip, are all drowned out in the harsh click of a rifle ready to fire.

Arthur drops his fishing pole to the rocks underfoot, keeps his eyes trained on the two men approaching and the badges gleaming at their lapels. He thought he was being careful and watchful, but these bastards, _Pinkertons_, snuck up on them and they are out in the open. “Jack. Get over here now.” His voice is probably too gruff, too afraid, but Jack follows the direction without freezing up. The boy scrambles over the river rocks and stands behind him, tiny hands gripping at the hem of Arthur’s jacket, blocked by his body. He keeps his right hand over the grip of his pistol, just a fraction of an inch from touching the wood. His left hand holds onto Jack’s shoulder, so fragile and thin and small, and pushes him behind him, keeps him held tight there. No chance for one of these men to get to him, no chance.

“- you’re Van der Linde’s most trusted associate, are you not? Mr. Arthur Morgan.” The man says it with a questioning lilt to his voice but there is no doubt in his eyes.

Arthur stands his ground, forces his lungs to breathe, forces himself to calm down enough to listen. “Who are you?”

The man, thick divots and lines marking his cheeks, turns to the other agent, ignoring Arthur’s words. “You’ve read the file, haven’t you, Ross? Typical orphaned street rat seduced by that maniac’s silver tongue. Then maturing into a degenerate murderer.” He smiles, thin and confident. “I am agent Milton, this is agent Ross,” He gestures to the man with the rifle, and Arthur keeps his eyes trained on the gun. Ignoring the lack of attention on him, Milton goes on, “Agents of the Pinkerton Detective Agency seconded to the United States government…It is nice to finally meet you, Mr. Morgan. I have heard quite a lot about you.”

Arthur thinks of saying something but thinks better of it in the next moment. He has to consider Jack, has to get the kid away from these men, make the agents leave, something.

Agent Milton keeps talking, as if Arthur is paying him any attention, as if there is an audience around them hanging off of his words, as if the river does not drown him out in the faintest way forcing him to raise his voice to be heard. “You’re a wanted man, Mr. Morgan. A very wanted man indeed. There is a five-thousand-dollar bounty for your head alone.”

Not for the first time since the fortune, Arthur feels resentment rising up his throat at the mention of his bounty, how high it is, why it exists at all. But he swallows that down like the bitter medicine it is. Now is not the time.

_If you continue down the path of the devil, he will take everything from you._

Agent Ross, a thick mustache and not much else of note, keeps his rifle aimed at the ground. But Arthur sees the readiness in the man’s stance, recognizes it easily, knows making a run for it is not much of an option. “Gentlemen, there must be some mistake-,”

“We want Van der Linde, Morgan.” Milton cuts to the chase, takes a few steps forward that make Arthur’s entire body tense like a live wire, “I know he’s lurking around here somewhere, know it was him that robbed that train up in the Grizzlies. And now some very rich men want his head to roll.”

Fear rises up the column of Arthur’s neck at the thought of these men getting ahold of Dutch, of taking him away and killing him. Freezing ice dashing through his veins. “Robbing trains seems rather old fashioned nowadays.” He has no idea what to say to get these men to leave. Always left the talking to Hosea, he supposes. Old man always made it look easy.

Milton tries to stare him down, and Arthur watches him out of the corner of his eye, but he is wholly unafraid of the pistol hanging at the man’s belt; he refuses to take his eyes off that rifle in Ross’ hands, who shifts his weight under Arthur’s scrutiny.

“Listen, Mr. Morgan. This is my offer. Bring in Van der Linde and you have my word, you won’t swing.” Milton sets his hands on the buckle of his belt, trying for a stance of nonchalant confidence. There might be some truth to his words, his voice, maybe, but Arthur is barely listening to him.

His mind runs with what he wants to say, how he is not the murderer the wanted posters frame him to be even though he is, wants to shield Dutch from the awful accusations the world always seems to throw at him. At one time he would have shouted his support for Dutch at the top of his lungs, bellowed it in the face of these Pinkertons and their starch pressed suits. But he’s not sure how to anymore, or if he even wants to. So, he keeps his voice low, measured, as calm as chilled molasses. “I will have to give your offer some thought, then.”

“Nothing more to say, Mr. Morgan? Well, Mac Callander certainly had some choice words for us.” Milton’s sneer turns as cruel as a vulture’s.

Arthur cannot help himself and asks before he can think better of it. “Mac Callander?”

“Pretty shot up by the time I got to him. So, I suppose you could see it as a mercy killing.”

Anger, hot and dry and all the feeling he has left in his limbs, moves up from the middle of his chest. But he pushes that aside, squeezes Jack’s shoulder where the kid still hides behind him. Not now, not the place or the time.

Milton’s eyes narrow, frustrated, and he leans forward, “It was slow, but still a mercy.” His sneer looks stuck in place and Arthur refuses to give the man the confrontation he seems to want so badly.

Something in Arthur’s lungs stings at the confirmation of Mac’s death. The gang had stopped hoping a while ago, and though Dutch made promises about never losing hope, of always searching, they all knew the truth; getting Sean back was a miracle of dumb luck and they knew deep down there would not be a repeat. Not after so long.

The back of his tongue tastes of rust.

Milton must gain some sort of satisfaction from Arthur’s grim silence, as he straightens his posture and turns back towards his horse. “Good day to you, Mr. Morgan.”

Arthur grunts after him, not trusting his mouth with words right now.

Ross finally puts his rifle over his shoulder, turns away to follow Milton, but looks back to stare past Arthur. “Enjoy your fishing, kid. While you still can.”

Arthur feels Jack cower at the words, the bark of them, the threat, but he holds the boy still until the Pinkertons mount their horses and ride off down the road. Only when they are out of sight does he turn around, drop to his knees, and hug Jack close.

It’s as much for Jack’s benefit as it is for Arthur’s. The boys breathing is a shudder and his arms wrap around Arthur as far as he can reach in a tight, if small, grip. Arthur keeps seeing dark spots in his vision and he tells himself to not hold on to Jack too hard, to remember how small and fragile he is. A rumble starts up in his chest, a stampede, at the thought of more Pinkertons showing up. He doubts any will though; this was a display, a show to scare him into doing something stupid, but with Jack here he refuses to be anything but careful.

“You’re alright, kid. I’m here. You were so brave.” Arthur hears himself say. He cannot imagine holding these words back, hates knowing that a few months ago he would have, hates the man he was, still is, trying to _change_. Because he cannot remain silent when he knows the sound of Jack’s terror in the haze of a nightmare, knows the hitching breaths clattering in his chest now are a result of fear and uncertainty. Maybe if Arthur had stayed calm, Jack might not have known to be as upset as he is. But the boy has always been too perceptive, just like his mother, and Arthur knows no amount of bluster from him in the face of those officers could have kept either him or Jack calm.

“C’mon now. Lets go for a ride before we head back to camp.”

“I want Mama.” Jack’s voice, unsteady as a newborn fawn, makes Arthur’s heart hurt, piercing flint shards to make him bleed, but he stands anyway, forces his knees to lock.

“We can’t go back just yet. I don’t want those men knowing where camp is. Might hurt folks. We’ll ride back as soon as we can, I promise.” Arthur makes his eyes meet Jack’s, meets them and does not look away like he wishes he could.

Jack looks up at him, frown so small on his face, but he runs over to where he dropped the flower chains, sweet red yarrow, and runs back with them gripped tight in his hands.

Arthur grabs the boy under the arms and hoists him up to Rosie’s saddle, follows him a moment later and pulls the reins toward the trail leading to Strawberry.

* * *

They ride around the Heartlands until the sky starts to burn with the warmth of sunset. It takes hours – hours for Arthur’s fear of being followed to calm, hours of passing the time by pointing out things along the roadside to Jack, hours of Jack’s voice beginning to show excitement every time a bird flutters past Rosie’s hooves. They snack on a tin of crackers Arthur has stashed in one of the saddle bags and he tries to not think about how long they have been away from camp; Abigail is going to skin him alive.

“You were brave, Jack. I’m proud of you.” Arthur says into the crown of the boy’s head at some point during the ride. Somewhere between identifying trees and pointing out herds of deer loping across the plains. The yarrow flowers still held tight in Jack’s grip drift to his nose every other breeze, sickly sweet.

Returning to camp sets Arthur’s heart buzzing like a hive of bees. Glad to be back in some semblance of safety all the while knowing how much danger they are all still in. Hell, he’ll be lucky to survive Abigail when she gets ahold of him; been out with Jack near the whole damn day when he said they wouldn’t be gone to the river for more than an hour. The trail leading through the woods is a welcome sight and it makes Jack antsier than he has been the whole ride. Arthur sets a hand on the boys shoulder, tries to keep him calm, but then the brush parts enough for them to spot Abigail and Hosea standing at the top of the rise and Arthur gets Jack out of the saddle as fast as he can.

“Jack!” Abigail rushes forward, eyes so worried and hair frazzled from running worried hands through it.

“Mama!” Jack shouts back, not crying, but still running to his mother. They meet in a bear hug and Arthur can see how Abigail holds herself back, how much she wants to engulf the boy in the worry she must have hated feeling. A lake wave in a storm, consuming and unending.

“Jack, are you alright?” She keeps it to words, to a desperate hug that Arthur fears Jack will someday shirk away from.

“I’m okay, Mama.”

Hosea steps forward, worry creasing around his eyes like a dry riverbed. Arthur steps down from Rosie’s saddle, ready for a reprimand he can feel coming like the rumble of thunder in a storm. But Abigail, seeming satisfied with finding Jack unharmed, is the one to speak up first with a sound of scraping ice in her voice. “Arthur Morgan-,”

Arthur raises a hand between them, keeps his distance, forces himself to interrupt her before she can start. “I know. Some lawmen came past the river and recognized me. Had to throw them off the trail. I’m sorry to have worried you.”

It throws Abigail off for a moment, and the way she grips tighter at Jack's shoulder makes Arthur's gut twist with guilt. “Well…alright then. Thank you.” Her voice is calm, but Arthur knows better than to think he is off the hook. Not for the first time he marvels at her strength, at her love for her son. “C’mon, Jack, lets get you something to eat.” She stands and turns back toward camp, leading Jack along with her.

“Okay, Mama. I’m so hungry I could eat a whole bear!”

Their chatter drifts off toward the campfires and Arthur starts to follow them, leading Rosie along.

“Lawmen?” Hosea asks.

The rasp of Hosea’s voice settles like balm on Arthur’s shoulders, where the muscles feel raw and sore from fear. He hums, starts on untacking Rosie in the dying orange light of sunset. “Pinkertons. Two of them. Agent Ross and…uh, Agent Milton. Wanted to know where Dutch was and…offered me a lot to bring him in.” His hands still at Rosie’s whithers, rough palms rasping over the warm red of her coat. Even after that long trail ride, he has been avoiding the thought of that. The idea of betraying Dutch.

Hosea stands to the side, arms crossed, staring into the ground as though he can see something there. “They didn’t ask anything else? Do they know where we are?”

“I don’t think they know where camp is. Not exactly. But they know we’re in the area.”

“Dutch will want to hear about this.”

It makes Arthur stumble though he has no idea why it does. Of course, Dutch needs to hear of this. It will be his word that will set the camp packing up and moving by tomorrow morning. When Kieran runs up to take Rosie’s reins from him, Arthur can barely manage a mumbled thanks, mind running too fast. He steps away from the hitching posts, forgetting where to set his hands or how to breathe.

“You alright, son?” Hosea watches him, mouth set in a grim line, too knowing, too wary. It hurts Arthur’s stomach to see that look on the old man’s face. He can take Dutch’s glare, his words, _I expect you’ll betray me in the end, Arthur. You’re the type. _But not from Hosea. Cannot imagine Hosea turning something like that on him.

“Yeah, yeah of course. I just uh…” Arthur shakes his head and coughs into the crook of his arm, starts walking toward Dutch’s tent as if there are not slugs crawling up the inside of his stomach now. “Just tired is all. Long day.” Slimy and wrong.

Hosea makes one of his all-knowing “Uh huh” noises and Arthur ducks his head. No idea why he feels this way. It’s Dutch. Hosea. Even with all this fortune business he should still be able to trust Dutch. Always has, no real reason not to now. So dramatic and stupid, all of it. And Hosea is always there for him, always has been, does right by them all.

Hosea pats a hand at Arthur’s shoulder and that makes it a touch easier to keep walking. The campfires are warm and alive with people, Javier’s guitar, Bill’s whining voice retelling a war story. The smell of Pearson’s cooking is thick in the air and Arthur’s stomach growls. He avoids looking over, knows he cannot join them just yet. Dutch’s tent sits open in the night air, and the man himself looks up from his book at their approach, snaps the binding shut and stands up to greet them with a wave of open arms.

“Gentlemen. Glad you’re back, Arthur. What kept you?” The concern is genuine, Arthur can hear it, and the safety in it feels like the warmth of hot coffee on a cold day.

“Some men with the Pinkerton Detective Agency recognized me at the river. They know about the train and they know we’re here.” Arthur reminds himself to keep his voice toned down, not as loud as he wishes it could be. Some folks in camp might panic if they hear this. Wants to shout it in Dutch's face so he will hear, will listen. And he will hear, Arthur knows he will.

“Were you followed?” The immediacy of the question stings, the smack of a butcher’s cleaver sinking into bone, and Arthur hopes Dutch’s intention is not as selfish as it seems. His gut tells him it is but he pushes that down.

“Of course not. Rode around damn near five hours to make sure no one was tailing us.”

Dutch nods a few times, staring off into the distance past Arthur’s shoulder. “Good, good.”

“They want you, Dutch. Offered me…a lot in exchange, they did.” Arthur holds his tongue of what Milton mentioned, feels a ghost of a shiver run down his spine at the thought of a noose around his neck. He wishes Hosea would say something, swoop in and handle this, but the old man stands off to the side, staring into the ground with a sour look on his face.

“Why didn’t you take it?” Something in Dutch’s voice, so quiet, sounds off, hollow, like the thump of a rotted log finally falling to the ground.

“Very funny.” Arthur is unsure if the scoff he lets out is for his benefit or for Dutch’s. “So, what do we do now?”

Dutch circles him, eyes hard and flinty. “I say we do nothing. Not just yet.” Arthur expects a call to pull up camp and move, at most wait until the morning and head out then, not this. This cold look on Dutch’s face. It looks, and he sounds, so removed, so distant. Dutch runs a hand over his mustache. “They are just trying to scare us into doing something stupid.”

“Dutch. Now I know I did not just hear you say-,” Hosea speaks up then, voice no where close to how stubborn Arthur knows it can be.

Dutch’s posture cowers a fraction, a flinch Arthur recognizes as anyone being under Hosea’s scrutiny like this, but Dutch turns to the other man with the same hard edges. “We have turned a corner, Hosea. We survived those mountains; we can survive this. We just need to stay calm. Acting rashly will only hurt our chances. I will not be frightened into jumping the gun just because a pair of men in suits paid Arthur a little visit.”

Something about it, the offhand tone of Dutch’s words, makes Arthur’s temper broil up like a screaming kettle over the campfire. It makes his shoulders square up and his stomach tightens, “One of those ‘men in suits’ nearly aimed a rifle at Jack.” A flinch in Dutch’s spine, satisfying in the worst way. “I can’t just let that lie, Dutch. If we want to stay ahead of this, and keep everyone safe, we need to move.” His nightmares flash behind his eyelids and it hurts to not see a mirror of that in Dutch’s eyes.

“And I must insist that we will be fine so long as we keep our heads in this. Arthur, I don’t think you have ever questioned me quite like this. This isn’t like you.” Dutch is staring at him with a harsh gaze that feels so strange, so unfamiliar.

“Dutch we can’t stay here much longer.” Hosea’s voice sounds held back, like a chained-up hound. “A few months ago, you would have already been calling for folks to pack up their things…and now you just want to sit here and twiddle our thumbs?”

Dutch’s scowl is growing thunderous, and Arthur marvels that he ever felt afraid of it, of the empty promises behind it. “There is no need for us to run and scatter on the wind. We do not run. We need to remain calm.”

“Calm? What are you on about? They know we're here, Dutch. They’ve threatened a child, and it won’t take them long to figure out where our camp is.” Hosea’s voice leaves no room for argument. But Dutch finds the room, because of course he does, he always does; it’s how the man works.

Arthur looks away from their bickering, the sound of it. A hound braying and a fox hissing. He spies movement in the trees and has enough time to tense before he sees it is John’s horse, Old Boy, and Taima trotting up to the hitching posts. The sight of them is a welcome one, something Arthur did not realize until he spots John and Charles dropping down from the saddles. He steps away from the mouth of the tent, into the night air and the warm glow of the wagon lanterns.

John spots him and walks over, looking wary of getting too close to Dutch and Hosea’s arguing. “When the hell did you get back?”

“Just now. Had to spend a few hours shaking off a tail. I’ll tell you later.” Arthur tacks it on to the end because John is not looking at him, not paying him much of any attention; he is looking from wagon to wagon, searching.

Something catches his eye, and he looks down to the matted grass at their feet too quickly. “Charles and I, we went looking for you. Ain’t like you to keep the kid out that long.” John says it to the ground. He glances up to where Abigail sits with Jack at the campfire, and looks back down again.

Arthur watches him, his stupid brother, and pats a heavy hand to John’s shoulder. “Go on. Your boy did just fine. Put on a brave face, didn’t cry, better than you would’ve done when you were a kid.” Arthur laughs under his breath when John ducks away from his arm, worry draining from his face with an easy scowl.

He only hesitates another few moments before walking to the fire, hovering until Abigail sees him, greets him, and then he sits down with them, hat a nervous silhouette in the firelight. The few others there, Javier, Sean, Uncle, cheer that he is back and he waves them off. John sets a hand on the Jack’s head, and the kid turns to start chattering at him, telling him every little thing about his day.

“Arthur. You alright?” Charles’ voice is big and comfortable in Arthur’s ear, and he turns to it with so much relief in his bones.

“Fine. Fine. Couple of Pinkertons threatened me and Jack, so we took the long way back.” Arthur sets his hands at the pockets of his jeans – better that than giving in to the temptation of tucking Charles’ hair back behind his ear.

Charles’ face scowls, wide mouth pulled down in a grimace. “John asked me to come with after supper and see if I could track you two. Saw the other footprints but…” He trails off, staring at where John and his family sit. He brings a hand up and pushes his hair back from his forehead. “Good to know you two are safe. When are we heading out?”

“Heading out?”

“Figure Dutch and Hosea will want to leave if Pinkertons are that close.” Charles looks past Arthur’s shoulder, must hear the bickering still going on behind him, and connects the dots.

“Dutch says we need to stay calm and not rush anything.” Arthur kicks at a rock on the ground and keeps his eyes on it. “I agree with you, and Hosea does too, that we need to move, but…” His stomach growls and he just wishes this day could be over.

Silence holds between them, and Arthur shifts his weight from one foot to the other. It is not that standing here with Charles feels like any sort of pressure. There is just something to it, a feeling Arthur has no means of describing and something itches behind his ears to not try and explain it with words. His heartbeat rumbles in his chest and he wonders if Charles might be able to hear it.

Charles starts walking away, “C’mon. It’s been a long day.” and Arthur follows him without thinking. Turns his brain off because that is easier than worrying over these feelings he sometimes has about Charles. He leads Arthur to the soup pot and stands with him as he pours himself a bowl of whatever Pearson managed to put together today. Charles’ presence is not heavy, not a weight, never is, just watchful. The campfire is crowded when they walk up, but Sean scoots down to make room, and Uncle pats the empty seat next to him for Charles.

Javier stops playing his guitar long enough to say, “There he is. Long day, Arthur?”

“You could say that.” He tucks into his stew. The meat isn’t terribly tough, a blessing after today. Uncle dives back into some story he was telling, nothing they believe, of course, but it fills the time. Jack yawns soon after finishing his own bowl of stew, and Abigail ushers him away to sleep. John watches them go, but stays in his seat.

Arthur sits with them all for a while, content to sit and soak in the energy of his family. Keeps his eyes on his soup bowl, away from Charles’ warm stare sitting in the firelight. Nothing dangerous in those eyes, just warm, enough to feel a flush up his throat.

When he turns in for the night, earning a few waves and a “Off to bed with ya, old man” from Sean, Arthur nearly collapses on his cot. Pulling off his boots, he spots a chain of red yarrow sitting on his bedside table, soft petals clumped together. He hangs it up beside the picture Jack drew for him, the flower stems nearly too delicate to be hanging from a nail. Staring at the chain as he falls asleep, as he listens to the others wander off to bed, he hopes the weather will not have the chance to ruin the chain, wishes in a small moment to himself that he had a real roof over his head to keep those little flowers, and so much more, safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: The writers block for this chapter was next level. But at the same time, I never even intended for this to be a whole chapter.


	18. Trains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I intend for this chapter to get so long? No, I did not. Did I intend to take this long writing it? No, I did not.

The next day is a bright one, a sunny one. Arthur wakes up to the smell of campfire coffee and a spray of spring sunshine peaking past the edge of his lean-to. Morning in camp is a mess of noise that feels more comfortable to him than the whisper of his own breathing – the clatter of Pearson cleaning up breakfast, the clucking of chickens, Miss Grimshaw yelling at Uncle for who knows what. It is far from what he wants to hear, the shouting and shuffling of camp packing up to move, but the noise is still alive and there. After some of the nightmares he has had lately this is always a welcome ruckus to wake up to.

He wanders to the main campfire, yawning as he goes. His jaw aches at the hinge, must have been tensed all through the night. Wakes up that way too often it seems, nowadays. He settles on one of the logs, next to Hosea, and pours a cup of coffee for each of them. Hosea is perfectly capable of pouring his own, they both know it, but Arthur does it anyway.

Hosea accepts the cup. “Thank you, son.”

Arthur sits with the old man for a while, eyes watching the edge of camp where Jack walks amongst the chickens, throwing seed to the ground, looking as though nothing from the day before is weighing on him. Though, Abigail is hovering mighty close to the boy. “I’m assuming the plan is to stay here?”

“That is the plan.” Hosea rolls his eyes and heaves a heavy sigh. “I tried to tell him, but he…” He shakes his head, and it has been many years since Arthur saw him look this defeated. “We’ll be fine, I’m sure. Though, the next sniff of trouble and I’m putting my foot down.” He smiles over the rim of his mug, and Arthur gives a grim smile back.

“I’m sure you will.”

“Ah, it’ll be alright, Arthur. Nothing we can’t handle. We’ve been in worse binds before.” Something in Hosea’s voice calls to Arthur, urges him to let this lie, like he always has, but maybe he ought to change that part of himself too. _Change_. Maybe going along with it will lead to their ends. Maybe not. Hell, he doesn’t know anymore.

Arthur heaves himself up to standing, stretches out his neck until it cracks too loud. “Let me know if there’s anything you need help with.”

“Of course, Arthur. Thank you.”

Halfway back to his lean-to, Arthur sees John walking straight at him and he tries with all his might to keep a sigh from leaving his mouth. He has been trying to be kinder to his brother, he really has, but it always feels like such an uphill battle. “Morning, Marston.”

Scars still mar John’s face, angry and red and raw, but they must not hurt that bad considering the look of confusion that springs itself onto his face. “Uh…Morning. Listen I need to talk to you.”

“Sure.” Arthur sips his coffee, tries to keep his eyes away from those scars. All jokes aside, they really do look awful.

“What the hell happened yesterday? Abigail said something about the law, but…” He trails off, kicks at the ground, sets his hands on his hips in a nervous tic Arthur knows too well.

Arthur struggles to mask the chuckle in his voice, how it draws out his words. “Well, you almost sound worried.”

“Well of course I’m worr-…Kid shouldn’t have to be a part of that. And if it’s getting dangerous to stay here shouldn’t we be packing up already?” John’s voice is a hush, not subtle but not shouting either. Just a few words, but so much more than Arthur ever expected of him.

Arthur shuffles his feet, angles his body so he is facing Dutch’s tent, back to the cliffs, watchful of anyone listening. “Couple of Pinkertons threatened me at the river. Said they knew it was us that robbed that train, and they know we’re around.”

“And they didn’t try anything?” John asks, mirroring Arthur’s posture, crossing his arms and scowling too much.

The memory of Pinkerton badges gleaming in the sunlight is all that keeps Arthur’s eyes from rolling at John’s surly tone of voice. “One had a rifle, but he never fired it. Just…scared Jack and me.”

John chews at his lip, shifts his weight from one leg to the other. “And we’re staying here? Should be moving. North passes might be clearer now that the snow is melting. Not…”

Arthur clears his throat, knows John will need to grapple with this for a while. His brother can be smart at times, but something like this is a lot to handle; doubting Dutch has never been an easy thing for either of them. “Dutch says the plan is to stay.” He wants to say more but knows he can’t, not fair to put that on John, not fair to put it on anyone.

A scoff, John sucks air through his teeth, “Well, that’s it then.” Defeated, tired, as raw as the wounds on his face.

Arthur looks away from John, trying to avoid seeing any of the pain he already feels in his heart. They both have their reasons for never doubting Dutch, for trusting him with themselves, with everything. Never had much reason to doubt him before this, still not much reason. For Arthur it is those dusty words he cannot seem to shake out of his ears, Cassidy’s creaking voice following him everywhere he turns. Not sure what John’s reason is.

His eyes rove over camp, leaving John to chew on his lips and the words and this silence. He’ll talk when he is ready, or he will walk off. Hard to tell with him.

“This…this isn’t like him.” John finally offers up to the wind, sounding as strong as dandelion fluff.

Arthur grips a hand at his belt buckle. Shifts his weight, feels like there is a burr hiding in one of his socks. “No, it isn’t…Didn’t think you’d noticed.”

John huffs under his breath and squints over at Arthur through the harsh sunshine. “He said something to me the other day about what happened in Blackwater and it just…It sounded wrong; you know? And the way he was looking at me… I’ll admit I don’t want to notice it.”

“What really happened on that ferry, John?” Arthur does not want an answer to his question. From the bits and pieces he has learned from Javier, from Dutch, and Micah even, there is nothing about that failed heist he wants to dig into. Some secret he has no desire to know.

John shakes his head, looks over and meets Arthur’s eye. “I still don’t know. I was shot and bleeding through most of it. It was a mess and now…I feel like we can’t go back. Just want things to go back the way they were, keep on the way we always have.”

It is the wishful tone of John’s voice that has Arthur shaking his head, wishing the same. It makes his teeth ache with how much he is still keeping to himself. But he can let out a few words of it, a few hints of this awful, clawing feeling of betrayal and loss that has settled in the pit of his stomach. He can trust John with this. “Something tells me we ain’t going to be able to keep on with this for much longer. The law, Dutch…something has to give, eventually.”

John startles, but his reaction is not nearly as bad as Arthur feared. Honest and sincere as he can be, which oftentimes is too much. “Scary to hear someone like you say that. Makes it… You could’ve just lied to me.” There is a glare, but when Arthur looks over, John is watching him and gives a small nod.

Arthur breathes a sigh of relief, should have known John would understand without a bunch of words between them. At least that much will never change, he hopes.

Camp moves around them, a mess of noise and motion Arthur is not sure he could get tired of watching. Wind flaps at the canvases of tents and lean-tos, breezing through the trees just finished greening out with spring leaves. Pearson whistles some tune while cleaning the breakfast dishes, same song he has whistled for the past ten years. Sean is just waking up, stretching and yawning at the far campfire – kid always manages to sleep too late no matter when he heads off to bed. Charles starts chopping firewood, as he tends to do in the mornings. Not that Arthur makes much note of anyone’s schedule. Not that any of them really have a schedule they stick to – excepting Pearson and Kieran, for the sake of the camp eating on time and for the sake of Duffy’s nerves, respectively.

“Anyway, I was going to ask you yesterday, but…” John trails off and Arthur forces his eyes to keep staring ahead, not straying over to the chopping block. Arthur is most certainly not watching Charles out of the corner of his eye. He is not letting his eyes trace the curve of Charles’ spine. The strength of his legs, like tree trunks. Not following the motion of swinging an axe down, the raw power held in those shoulders. The turn of his hips. Arthur’s neck is not sweating, not at all. His heart hammers in his chest, a flighty dove bursting from a bramble thicket. “Uncle told me something about a train heading through Scarlet Meadows, full of wealthy folk at night.”

“Uh huh. Mary-Beth found that lead in Valentine, if I remember right.” The _thwack_ of the axe, Arthur reminds himself to look straight ahead, do not stare. Curses the feeling of embarrassment blushing across his neck and ears, so familiar and hot as a fire poker. Licks of shame quick to follow. His stomach curdles with all of these thoughts, the lies he tells himself; Charles is his friend, does not deserve to be stared at. Not his fault Arthur is this sad and lonely. And Arthur respects the man so much, should be better than this, should not let his thoughts stray like this. Wrong, slimy thoughts that they are.

“Don’t sound too enthused. I looked into it and it’s coming through tomorrow night. This could be a good break, easy enough take. Not big enough to get us out of here but...” John is glancing over to him, arms crossed, and Arthur bites his tongue.

“Gonna take a real big job to get us out of here at this point...I don’t know, John. Stopping a train is always a pain in the ass.” He nearly brings up Colter and remembers John was not there for that heist. Javier nearly broke his leg and Lenny almost fell off the damn train into a canyon. Trains are never an easy business.

“Not unless we make the train stop.”

“How do you mean to make a train stop? Bullheaded as you are, your skull ain’t thick enough to take on a train.” _Thwack_. Arthur tries to focus on the air rushing into his lungs as he breathes, better that than the sway of Charles’ dark hair escaping the tie at the back of his neck.

“Very funny. No, block the tracks with an oil car. The conductor has no choice but to stop the train, and then we can move in without any hurry.”

Arthur glances over to John, notices the raised eyebrows that mean John is looking for an answer, approval, something. Wide eyes trying to come up with the right idea, just like when they were young kids, shiny and dumb. Still dumb, just older now. “That’s…a good idea. Yeah… that should work out just fine.” And it is a good idea, not one Arthur could have come up with, he’s sure.

John waits in the silence for a few moments, probably expecting an insult, but when Arthur says nothing more, the smile peeking at the corner of John’s mouth is worth it. “So, you’re in?”

“Yeah alright.” Arthur looks down to the ground and lets his own smile hide under the brim of his hat. “We’ll need some dynamite to blow out any safes, and another gun or two to keep folks in line. Anyone you had in mind?” Javier would be a good choice, maybe Bill.

John hesitates a moment, “You, me, figured Charles could handle it.” _Thwack_. The nerves in Arthur’s chest wriggle around, like a can of bait worms, but that is alright; he would rather have Charles along for this, can deal with whatever is causing this distraction another time.

“I’ll go fetch the oil wagon. They’re always coming and going from that refinery on the plains. You ought to stay here for a while today. I think Jack might still be a tad spooked.” Arthur ducks his head to keep away from John’s eyes, to cut out the temptation of glancing over at Charles’ turned back, the silhouette of him against the blue skies hanging over the cliffs.

John opens his mouth to say something, an insult if Arthur recognizes the grimace of his mouth right, just a hint that is all Arthur needs to read his brother like an open book, but John shuts his teeth with a clack and clears his throat. “Alright…Thanks. There’s an old, abandoned shed out near Dewberry creek close to the border. Leave the wagon there.”

“Sure.” Arthur hears his voice, too surly, and tries to offset that by patting a friendly hand on John’s shoulder. “Good job with this one.” He turns on his heel and walks away. Away from the cloying pressure of being nice to John. Away from the temptation of watching Charles for much longer, _thwack_. Not happy about walking away from that, feels a sad thump in his chest, but he ought to be.

* * *

“Shit…” Mumbled words, the shatter of breaking glass.

Arthur should feel at least some surprise at finding Sean waiting at the meeting point across the border, but at this point in the week he really can’t. He drives the heavy wagon behind the burnt out remains of an old building, concealed from the road by a thick patch of blackberry vines, and makes his peace with dealing with Sean’s shitty aim. “The hell do you think you’re doing, boy?”

Sean does not turn to him, keeps staring at a line of old bottles sitting on one of the old building’s half-destroyed walls. His tongue is sticking out his mouth, clamped between his teeth in some strange bid for concentration as he takes a shot at one of the brown whiskey bottles. He misses. “What does it look like I’m doing, old man?”

“Being an awful shot.” Arthur’s words sound too harsh, even to him, and he curses himself and the gut reaction he hates falling back into. It earns him the sight of Sean’s shoulders shrugging up to hug his ears. But Sean is about as resilient to verbal jabs as any Irishman can be and he ignores Arthur’s words. He may act like a duck getting rained on, unaffected as can be, but Arthur knows how words can hurt more than they ever should. He tries to smooth it over. “What are you doing here?”

“Coming on the job with you guys, of course.” Two more shots fired, only one bottle breaks.

“John told you?”

“Course not. Bastard never lets me in on anything. Heard you two jabbering away the other morning, thought I’d tag along and help you two out.” Sean glances over to him, a touch of a grin on his face, but it falls too quick and he looks away to the bottles again.

“Just heard us, did you?” Arthur mulls it over, supposes they were not making much effort to be quiet. Then again, trying to keep anything quiet in camp is the lost cause of the century. Anyone could have heard them talking the other morning.

_Even Micah_. His thoughts whisper, fingernails scraping on steel.

“And it’s been a while since you and me have been on a job together, Morgan. Thought you might miss me.” Another shot, another miss.

Arthur walks up behind Sean, watches the way the kid holds his pistol, and winces. “Boy, I swear if you don’t learn to shoot straight soon… Relax your arm, you idiot. You’re too tense to get a good shot in.”

Sean’s body language stutters, still tense as he tries to readjust. Arthur steps forward, reminds himself to keep his temper dampened; it’s not Sean’s fault things feel like they’re going to shit nowadays. He taps at the kids elbow until Sean bends the joint.

“I don’t need your help, Englishman.” Sean barks.

Arthur feels his patience wear thin, and he draws a pistol from his hip to fire at a bottle without looking. The glass shatters, and Arthur watches Sean’s face go slack. “You want to run that by me again, boy?”

Sean stills. He leans away to shift his weight in case he has to dodge a punch. But Arthur stands there glowering, feels the trace of anger leave him like a clump of snow falling from a heavy branch and thwumping into a snowbank. Sean sees that, somehow, he must, because he smiles and spreads his arm, his mind settling on neither fight nor flight, “Ah, I love ya, Arthur Morgan. I love you; I do.”

Arthur smiles, though he does not mean to; Sean’s ego is bad as it is. “We got a while until John shows up. Want me to teach you something or should I settle in for a nap?” The changed man he is trying to be would help, would try to teach Sean the way he taught John all those years ago. Or, tried to teach John. Teaching John anything never went half as well as Arthur wanted it to.

“You mean it?” Sean lets the words tumble out his mouth, careless as fox kits chasing bugs in meadow grass, and coughs in the next moment to hide such a thing.

Arthur can see Sean’s sincerity, the genuine want to get better, and it eases a few of his many, many worries. This fixes nothing, will not save anyone, but the dumb, sheepish grin on Sean’s face is a hard thing to ignore. “Sure. Now get to shooting. And stop locking your knees.”

* * *

Arthur doubts Sean will ever be a great shot. He might be half decent after a lot of years of being an outlaw, when Arthur is long dead and gone, but for now the kid is only just starting to get better. Bit by bit. Took a full box of ammunition and the rest of the afternoon, but Sean isn’t half as bad of a shot as Arthur feared; seems like the kid was never taught in the first place, a thought that makes Arthur’s shoulders feel heavy. After a few unlearned habits, the kid won’t be half bad.

Sean grumbles through their dinner – a couple of rabbits he shot at, missed, and had to have Arthur finish off – and complains about the blisters rising along his right hand. Arthur throws another pile of kindling on the campfire and ignores him.

Darkness slowly leeches the warmth from the sky, drawing the full moon higher and higher. Good that the moon is so bright; they will need it when the train finally comes through. Sean keeps his mouth shut, somehow. After a few hours of saying just about everything the kid could possibly say – stories of old bar fights, a tale of some pretty girl on the coast, how much of a bastard Micah can be, seeing a pretty horse the other day in town – he must run out of air and busies himself with sharpening the knife he keeps at his belt. It is hard to remember sometimes that Sean can be this way, silent, thoughtful. At least it is hard for Arthur to remember.

Arthur leans against the tree trunk at his back and pulls out his journal to do some sketching. John and Charles shouldn’t be here for another hour or so, and if Arthur has to watch Sean’s fidgeting for much longer, he may just lose it. He tries to sketch the shape of the glass bottles and how the light shone through them in the afternoon light. Always hates how difficult glass can be. So many shadows and things he never seems to get right. He gives up on the third try, leaving a line of misshapen bottles at the top of the page, and starts writing underneath them.

_I often wonder what sort of trick life is playing on me. Seems like the world is moving too fast and I can only watch. This damn fortune, and all the hell it’s raised. Thinking Dutch might be the devil in all of this._

Arthur glances up and across the flames, catches Sean looking away from him too fast to be subtle. Fighting the urge to cross that last line out,

_I do not resent some of the changes that old man’s words have brought about. There must be worse things in this life than finding a reason to care about people. And though I know I will never be anything but an awful man, I might as well do what good I can while I’m still here. Good folk like this don’t deserve all of what that blind man saw in my future._

He squints through a wave of campfire smoke. The amber light has a hard time reaching the page, and in that flickering darkness Arthur sketches a figure. Thick set shoulders and strong legs, swinging an axe down to the chopping block. Takes him only a minute or two, trying to capture movements without thinking too hard about it. His sketch catches the motion, but he forces himself to keep writing, to not put any detail into the figure’s face.

_One change I cannot help but make is this. <strike>This feeli. This</strike>_

He scratches out the last words and clears his throat.

_Charles is a good friend. A man I find I respect more than just about anyone. And I…I cannot help but notice the little things about him that I know I shouldn’t. And this…this feeling is something I haven’t felt since Mary. Every time I talk to him it’s like my skin feels too tight. I stare and I feel like I cannot help myself, but I know that I should. Should be_

“Always funny to me that a man like you writes in a journal.” Sean interrupts the train of thought and Arthur is all too happy to let him.

“Funny how?” Arthur does not bother looking up, keeps his pencil still on the page, knows the routine of this. Sean is not the first person to ask why the hell an outlaw would want to write things down.

“Oh, I um…C’mon, Arthur. I didn’t mean nothing bad by it. Good way to keep track of things, I bet.” It is a deflection that lets Sean look away. Fiddling with a piece of kindling.

“Sure. I guess.” Arthur’s fingers ruffle over the edge of the journal pages, and he nearly closes it, but he wonders for a moment. He does keep track of a lot of things, but some of the events of the past few months have passed him by, and a big one he never pinned down was Blackwater. Something about it never adds up, no matter how he looks at it. John and Javier have been no help, and Arthur would rather kiss Uncle on the mouth than ask Micah. Which leaves Sean. And Arthur has been meaning to ask him, more like avoiding, really. But something in his gut tells him he needs to know what happened that day even if he does not want to. Maybe that day is part of all of this, this slow descent they have been on. Sean was there in the thick of it, and the only way Arthur is going to get a bigger picture is to get the kid talking. Out of camp and in the dark like this might be the best chance he is going to get.

“Sean…” Sean looks up, eyes glinting in the campfire, and Arthur hopes he does not regret this. “What happened on that boat? The ferry job.”

“Boat? Oh, you mean Blackwater. Messy bit of business that was.” Sean's shoulders sink down and he looks into the campfire smoke broiling up into the sky, hiding the stars just peeking out. “Everything was fine, until it wasn’t. Got on the boat, took out a few guards. Dutch and Micah cracked the safes. There was so much money we could have rolled in it, like pigs in the mud, you know?” Sean’s voice gains speed as he talks, gesturing with his hands in a way that reminds Arthur of John a little bit. “Then Micah said he heard something, said we ought to go, said we was pushing our luck as it was. Don’t know what the fuck he heard; didn’t see no one around when we walked out. Javier and I were just getting across the gangplank, back to the boardwalk, and they started coming out of the woodwork. Pinkertons everywhere you looked. John and Mac and Davey all got shot. Javier dragged us all into an alleyway, for more cover, and then…” He quiets, and Arthur holds his breath, fingers gripping the cover of his journal too hard. “Dutch-,” Sean stops himself, bites his tongue with a wince.

Arthur sees the tension in Sean’s muscles, the subtle look of fear on his face, and dread creeps up Arthur’s shoulder blades like ivy trailing up a broken house.

Sean seems to steel himself, looks up at Arthur and straightens his spine. “Dutch…he shot a girl. She was hiding in one of the alleys, from the shooting you know, and he…I saw it, but I don’t know why he…Her hands were up, and she was shaking and crying…and then he was yelling for us to move, said we had to get out of there. I was covering the wounded, you know, so I hunkered down to let them get away and then…big group of men rushed me, had to be ten of them. Nothing less could’ve taken down old Sean MacGuire. One got a lucky punch in and then I…I woke up in chains.”

The bravado in Sean’s voice at the mention of being attacked is a small comfort, and it hurts Arthur to take that away from him. “He just…shot her? Wasn’t in the way or…”

“No, he just…She said she wouldn’t say nothing, would act like we was never there, and then he just…shot her in the chest. Figured you’d have already asked the other boys about this.” Sean pulls at a stray string hanging from his coat sleeve. The movement is so small, but Arthur keeps his eyes on it lest he succumb to the rot crawling through his guts. _The devil_.

“John said he didn’t see much, and Javier brushed it under the rug.” At the time, in all of that snow and ice back in Colter, Arthur thought nothing of Javier not wanting to speak on it. Now though, he wonders what that means.

“Javier was keeping Davey walking most of the time. Poor bastard got shot in both legs. We took turns keeping an eye out for him and Mac since they was hurt worst while Micah and Dutch ran up ahead to clear the way. And I bet you ain’t too keen on asking Micah about it, eh?” Sean’s mouth turns up in a vague smile. He is trying so hard to act alright about this.

“And then Skelding’s boys caught you? Dutch only said there were Pinkertons, but bounty hunters got you?” Arthur asks, trying to keep his head on straight and keep Sean talking.

A few crackles from the fire, and Sean mumbles, pensive, “Didn’t think of that. Don’t know why they were there if the Pinkertons were…” Night has been settling in around them, and the moon is rising higher and higher. They will need to break camp soon, ready their horses, check their equipment, things that will require attention and a stop to all this talking. “Why do you think there were that many bounty hunters around? Wasn’t no sign of them when we was coming up on the ferry…” Sean stares into the flames, and Arthur wishes he was not already suspecting what Sean is starting to think. “You don’t think…do you think we was set up?” The trail of thoughts it took to get here reminds Arthur that Sean is not as stupid as he likes to seem.

“I don’t know what it means, Sean. Sounds like a hell of a setup, but that would mean someone tipped them off.” Arthur hesitates, feels his hands shaking with the chance of this turning around and biting him later. It is a leap, but he has made it before, and now with everything going sideways it does not feel like such a jump of logic as it used to be. “It would mean someone tipped off the Pinkertons, and those bounty hunters, that you boys were going after that ferry.”

A moment of silence stretches too long, and Arthur clenches his jaw to keep from peeking up at Sean’s face. Just like with Lenny, this could blow up in Arthur’s face if he isn’t careful. Doubting Dutch is all well and good in his own head and calling Micah a rat ain’t too far from the normal manner of things, but it is a different mess entirely if Sean hears all of this and calls Arthur a traitor. It would mean too many things, least of all the hurt it would bring. Sean looking at Arthur as though he is the one to betray them would hurt so much worse than Dutch outright saying the same all those nights ago.

“You don’t think…you think someone in the gang would…” Sean is watching him too intensely now, something so desperate and clinging in his eyes.

Arthur closes his journal, sets it back in his satchel. “I don’t know anymore, Sean.”

“Don’t you lie to me, Arthur Morgan.” There is fire in Sean’s voice, and it forces Arthur to turn his head back. “You saying that, like you ain’t ruffled by all of this, ain’t the same man who told me he cares about this gang.” Sean looks down to the ground, but his eyes snap up a moment later and his hands clench into fists, “Either you know something, or you don’t. If I ain’t worth telling, then you can go kiss a bull’s arse.”

What Sean says brings a flicker of pride to Arthur’s heart. He sighs, hopes this is the right thing to say. “A while back, Lenny said he caught Micah talking to a law man. Said Micah killed him to keep him quiet, didn’t want Lenny hearing what he had to say. I tried looking into it in Strawberry but couldn’t find anything. And now with the Pinkertons threatening us, as I’m sure you heard in your eavesdropping,” Arthur takes a moment to glare, and Sean has the nerve to look unconcerned, “I’m worried Micah might be a rat.”

“Never liked that oily turd anyway.” Sean’s words are faster than a bullet and they make the tension drain from Arthur’s body. “Might be part of the gang but he isn’t…You care, you know? Even someone as dumb as rocks knows that. Dutch always talks about having faith but that’s not…” Sean must hear himself, clears his throat, and bobs his head from side to side. “You know what I mean.” He waves his hand in the air between them and stands up in a mess of nerves. “Let’s get this show rolling. Don’t want to burn moonlight.”

Arthur heaves himself up to standing, stomach still fizzing with nerves over that confrontation, and manages to smack a hand onto Sean’s shoulder in passing. This could still go wrong, but it seems like Sean has his back as far as the kid can manage.

“Thanks, Sean.”

* * *

“What are you doing here, kid?” John’s voice barks out of the underbrush and Arthur’s spine tenses. He turns away from checking Rosie’s saddle and squares his shoulders. John is his brother, and he knows that under all the muck and grime of their lives there is a good man hidden somewhere in there. But even with all of that going for him, John can still be quite the ass when he sets his mind to something.

John and Charles push through the bushes and walk across the clearing to them. The sight of Charles silhouetted against the foggy moonlight, shotgun in hand and dark eyes ever watchful, makes Arthur’s mouth run as dry as a California desert.

“I’m coming with, John. On the job.” Sean’s voice is confident, but Arthur sees the way the kid bounces his weight from one foot to the other, nervous fidgeting.

“I said, what are you doing here, kid?” John's voice turns as dark as the stitches still holding his cheek together.

“Well, Arthur says I’m coming along.” Sean’s confidence holds stronger than Arthur thought it could in the face of this.

John scoffs, a heavy exhale that Arthur knows means his temper is boiling up. “It’s fine, John. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” Arthur looks away, looks back, stares hard at where John’s eyes should be in the darkness.

It is not often when Arthur throws his weight around, pushes back against someone knowing his position in the gang will win out. Every now and then Bill’s posturing gets to be too much. And with Micah it is always a balancing act of frustration and throwing a punch to be regretted later. Not that Arthur regrets punching Micah’s nose in, just regrets how the bastard walks around like he is untouchable now, as if Dutch’s regard is enough to protect him.

And on occasion, Arthur and John butt heads on something or other. Routine, nothing strange about it. It never turns serious, and this time will be no different, Arthur can feel that in his bones. Unflinching like an obsidian blade.

“You sure about this?” John stares back at Arthur. Charles holds steady beside the two.

“No.” Arthur shrugs, gives John a halfhearted smile, and waits. It looks as though Charles smiles then, but the shadows are so dark in this thicket Arthur cannot be sure of what he sees.

John waves a hand in the air as if he can make Sean go away with the movement. There is no insult, no lashing out like Arthur expects. “Eh, why the fuck not. Let’s get going.”

Sean moves the moment John speaks, rasping tone that could be harsher, meaner, scrambling up the wagon wheel to sit in the front seat, reins dangling from his hands. “Let’s get this show on the road!”

Arthur rolls his eyes and clambers up after him, tucks his head down to ignore the sight of Charles climbing up the side of the oil car, grace and power held in his shoulders. “You’re crazy if you think I’m going to let you drive, kid. Give me those.”

Sean lets the reins go without a fight, slaps his hands on his knees. “Ought to be thanking your lucky stars old Sean MacGuire decided to come along for the ride. But no! All I get is doubts from all of you. Angry, Sulky, Scar Face. Bunch of laughs you all are!”

“…Am I angry? Or sulky?” Arthur calls over the rumble of wagon wheels starting down the road. Sean laughs, a big guffaw that could scare off a boar, and manages to start rambling so he does not have to answer.

* * *

As the train approaches, rumbling, chugging down the tracks, Charles tells himself he is not staring at Arthur, of course he isn’t. He is not doing his best to memorize the sight of Arthur's legs spread so wide to stand on top of the oil car, powerful thighs. He is not finding it hard to breathe.

As someone who Uncle affectionately refers to as the king of honesty, Charles knows he is not being honest with himself. He is staring, his neck feels too warm, there is a stirring in his gut he knows he should ignore.

He shakes his head and his shoulders, loads a round of shells into his gun. Should not be standing here in the dark staring at the strong angle of Arthur’s spread legs, how powerful his silhouette stands against the dappled night sky. Charles hates this. Hates this chance to look at something he does not have, will not have. Hates how his breath lingers hot and heavy in the bandana covering his mouth. Because Arthur is something he cannot have, not now, and most likely not ever. Because of who Charles is, what he has done, how the rest of the world would look upon such a thing, anything, everything, all the reasons in the world. Blackberry thorns clawing at his sleeves. Charles knows he should make his peace with this already just as he has made his peace with so many other things in this unfortunate life.

But as the train curves around the hill, shines its light upon the oil car, Charles looks up at Arthur’s silhouette and _wants_. Wishes he could stop thinking of all the reasons why the answer will always be _no_.

A squeal of brakes and the engineer calls out to Arthur, jumping from the train engine car like a fool despite the gun and the scowl and the obvious signs of a robbery. It is a relief to burst from the brush, focus on the job, and rush the engineer, strike at the back of his head and watch him fall to the ground. Charles drops to search the man’s pockets, quick, efficient, long since past thinking of this as some sort of wrong. Still breathing, no need for guilt. He takes a few moments longer than he needs to inspect a silver pocket watch; Arthur saunters toward him as if there is no hurry in the world.

“I’ll start collecting with John. You follow in behind and keep people quiet.” It is an order Charles does not mind following, knowing his appearance alone is often enough to make rich people shut up. He waits a few moments, hears John’s gun fire harmless into the air.

Many of the women scream, a few of the men do too, and Charles heaves himself up to standing. With a mask across his face, he feels very little fear of walking into the train car, knowing it would take a miracle for someone to recognize him. He keeps his shotgun drawn and readied across his chest, shouldering his way through the door in so as to block the entirety of the exit. People cower in their seats and he does his best to look at none of them as he follows John and Arthur down the row. None of the passengers refuse to give something of value, and Charles can feel their good luck running out, knows something has to give.

As they exit the car, Arthur says, “I’m going to go see what’s keeping Sean.” He waits for a nod from John before he steps down onto the gravel lining the tracks and stalks toward the caboose.

“Should only be two more cars. I’ll handle the talking.” John does not wait for confirmation from Charles and bursts into the next train car with a smack to the glass pane. “Ladies and Gentlemen, this is a robbery!”

Charles follows, keeping his steps heavy and slow. The fear, the eyes looking away as quick as they can, none of it is new to him. It rolls off of him like blood seeping down a butcher’s apron, red rolling over oiled leather. John handles the worst of it, the threats and the intimidating swagger Charles has seen Dutch use many times.

The next passenger car is nearly empty, only a few people cowering in their seats. One older man is somehow asleep in the back row. Charles stays close to John’s back, keeps an eye out as best he can with his nerves starting to itch. Things have gone too right for them, a job like this ought to have gone sideways by now, they were lucky to get the train to stop at all,

And a pair of gunshots punctuates that thought. They are distant, muffled, coming from the caboose, and Charles and John both move toward the car’s door. Their entrance into the next car is met with gasps, screams, and John nudges Charles to go ahead. “I’ll take care of this lot. You go see what the hell is going on out there.”

Charles walks down the car, footsteps muffled by the plush carpet runner. Another gunshot, muffled. An elderly woman flinches in her seat as he walks past, and Charles tucks his head down, something awful he refuses to acknowledge running down from his throat into his stomach.

He opens the last door to find a flatcar before the baggage cars, loaded with crates and barrels along the sides. Sean cowers behind one with his pistol in hand, looking as shaken as Charles has ever seen him. Arthur is further down, shooting at a guard crouching atop the caboose. There is enough time for Charles to duck behind one of the crates, but once he peeks out to shoot, the guard is already falling, his rifle clattering down to the tracks.

Arthur stands up from his crouch and wanders to Sean. “How about I check the car and you provide the cover this time, huh?” He reaches a hand out to help the kid up.

“You good?” Charles calls to Arthur, ignoring the breath of relief in his lungs at seeing them alright. Icicles melting from pine branches.

“We’re good. Just surprised is all.” Arthur slaps a hand at Sean’s shoulder, and the kid takes the blow as well as he can.

The air calms, but the scent of gunpowder and railway oil lingers, and Charles turns away to get back to John. He hears Sean say, shaky, quiet but not enough, “I…I’m sorry, Arthur.”

“It’s alright, kid.”

John is already walking through the last doorway, heavy weighted bag in hand. He tucks his pistol back into its holster and starts tying the bag off. “Those gunshots made everyone real excited to get rid of me. One feller threw his watch at me.” The smirk in John’s voice is unsurprising and Charles turns away from it, watches as Arthur ducks under the doorway of the baggage car, Sean close behind him and hunched in on himself.

The moment Arthur steps into the car, a tennis racket smacks into the side of his head and he stumbles to the ground. A man, hidden against the luggage racks, moves out of hiding, and draws a pistol, aiming at Arthur’s prone form.

There is a moment of pure panic in Charles’ veins, the screech of horses and the squeal of a rabbit’s snapping spine. Dread coating his bones and mixing in his blood because no matter how fast he moves it will still be too late to save Arthur, too late to do any good.

But Sean barges forward to loop his arms around the guard’s middle, tackles him to the ground. The scuffle is a mess, but somehow, Sean scrambles clear and draws his pistol at the guard. There is a shot, lost in Charles’ rush to get to them, John right behind him. They all huddle close in the doorway as Sean and Arthur both right themselves.

Arthur coughs, the wind knocked out of him, and nods to Sean. “Thank you.”

“We’re even now, Englishman.” Sean says with a stupid grin. There is a spray of blood across the kid’s face, a bruise forming under his left eye, but they are alive.

Charles blinks, feels sweat burning at the corners of his eyes. Feels like he can't get his breath back, cannot feel his hands, his ears pumping with too much blood and fear to hear anything. He blinks and his vision stays fuzzy. The others move and he tries to move with them, a lame antelope limping to keep up with the herd.

The baggage car nets them a lockbox with a sturdy hinge. Sean finds the key hiding in one of the guard’s pockets, and they add money clips, jewelry, and a stack of cash to the take. John stands in the doorway keeping an eye out all the while, and a stone sinks in Charles’ stomach when Marston calls out, “Everyone out, get the horses! We’ve got law coming down the train and more in the trees!”

* * *

Taima’s ribcage heaves underneath the saddle, sucking in air as best she can after making such a mad dash. The plains are too open and wide around them, past Emerald Ranch and close to the East Grizzlies by this point in their sprint. Charles see spots in his vision as his racing blood calms. His pistol hangs in his hand, barrel still hot.

“Did we lose them?” Sean coughs out, righting his hat from when it nearly fell off in a rush through a pile of roadside brush.

The hill they are on looks out over the valley enough for Charles to squint and just barely make out the distant glow of lanterns swaying across the valley. But they are distant, far off, and as he watches, several of them wink out toward the lake.

“Think so.” Charles says, tugging his bandana down from his mouth, the fabric wet from a spray of creek water kicked up by the horses’ hooves.

“Do…do you think that was a set up?” John asks, still out of breath and wheezing against his saddle.

“How do you mean?” Charles asks, does not want an answer. The guards on the train were routine, standard. But too many lawmen showed up after, too many to be locals. He knows that deep down but hopes someone else will say as much.

“Like Blackwater. Everything is fine until we have the money. Then the law shows up.” Sean says, righting himself on Ennis’ saddle. The kid is looking from John to Arthur and back again.

“The law always shows up.” John says, tired and slow.

“Not that quick though.” Arthur cuts in, looks from John to Sean. “And not that many. There had to be twenty of them. That train was heading into the station at Rhodes before going on to Saint Denis, and that town barely has a sheriff and deputy, let alone twenty lawmen. No way they managed to get word to that big town on the river and get here in the time it took us to get through that train.” Arthur looks down to Rosie’s saddle, pulls his bandana down to sit at his throat.

The horses burr and shake out their hides in the following silence, and Charles feels another stone sink into the bottom of his stomach. Lays heavy and important there. “So…it was a set-up, you think?” John asks, seeming the only one brave enough to broach this.

Arthur rubs a hand across his mouth and the stubble at his jaw rasps. “Either they knew we was coming, or we got the worst luck I’ve ever seen. Ain’t no way the law knew we were doing this otherwise. Mary-Beth heard this lead in Valentine over a month back. No way they could connect it back to us. So, either one of you talked-,” Charles watches John turn to Sean, who, to his credit, only scowls in answer, “Or someone in camp overheard and talked. And I know I trust all of you to keep quiet.”

So a rat, then. Charles knows that for a gang like this one, more family than outlaw, such an implication is not made lightly, and he has seen this pressure lie heavy on Arthur's shoulders in the past few months. He mentioned it once or twice, and a person would have to be blind to not see the tension between Arthur and Dutch, but this is a different thing entirely.

Arthur's trust in Charles, a warm steady thing, is not new to him. Arthur has trusted him with a great deal more than some of the others, he knows, but it still sends a warm rush through his lungs, makes breathing a touch easier. A breeze brushing through chamomile flowers.

“Never said a word about it, honest.” Sean pipes up.

Arthur nods to him. "I'm going to keep looking into it. Best not to say anything or set anyone off until we're sure." He stares at each of them in turn, and Charles basks in the heat of Arthur's eyes.

"I know who I'm putting my money on," Sean grumbles, and flinches from Arthur's hard glare in the next moment, "But I won't say a word! Cross me heart. Hope to die."

Charles wonders if, for once, he and Sean are thinking the same thing.

John stares a few moments more before nodding with a begrudging slowness. “Well that's...good to know. One more thing to worry over and not talk about. Should we head back to camp?” He asks, a heavy bow to his shoulders. His words are so heavy, a hammer striking an anvil, and Charles wishes he did not feel the same weight beginning to press down on all of them. A weight that has been pressing down since they ran away from Blackwater.

The moon hangs full and heavy over them all, and Arthur glances up to it before answering. “We could…But I’d rather not take another chance. Not after all that. We can make camp somewhere around here and head back in the morning when it’s safe.”

John only nods, and Sean chimes in to fill the silence. “Sounds good boss. A spot of sleep will do us all some good. Feel so tired I’m about to fall out of me saddle.”

* * *

By the time they find a decent spot off the trail, turning the horses loose to graze, and a fire roars in the middle of their bedrolls, Charles feels about ready to pass out where he stands. All of them are tired, dull eyes and yawns that will not stop coming, but none of them lie down. Charles wonders if it is the adrenaline of the gunfight or the prospect of someone in camp being a traitor that keeps all of them up. Some unnamed thing still buzzes in Charles’ blood, and it makes him stay up. Wishes he could sleep, wishes he could put this night behind him already.

“I’ll tell you fellas a story you’ve never heard before,” Sean starts, sitting across the fire and chattering like he just seems to need to, “It’s one me Da told about being an outlaw in the old country.” The kid stopped shaking a while ago, tremors in his hands half-hidden by his jacket sleeves, and now he seems determined to stay up through the night until morning. The bruising on his face is going to be dark and purple and nasty by then. He starts in on his story, gesturing with his hands as if there is no other way for him to speak. John switches from staring into the fire to watching Sean talk, going back and forth as if he is only half listening. Charles listens, but only somewhat; Sean’s need to talk is incessant, and really, Charles is watching Arthur.

Once everyone settled around the fire, Arthur brought out his sketchbook and wrote for a while, pencil scratching out words across the page. Charles refused to peek, knowing how much that would hurt him, let alone how it would hurt Arthur. The trust between them is no small thing and Charles refuses to ruin it if he can help it.

“How in the hell would your Da know something like that?” John crows with a laugh, digging at Sean in a way that sounds so familiar in Charles’ ears. A brotherly tone he hears Arthur often use with Sean, Lenny, John.

“Because he knew what he was talking about. That’s how. Now hush up, Marston; I’m trying to tell you a tale!”

“Alright, alright. Get on with it, then.”

Nothing in John’s tone is angry or cruel, and Charles is content to recognize the laughter in the man’s grating voice. He allows his eyes to drift back to the fire, lets their arguing drape over him like a blanket, and feels surprise when Arthur leans over. His hands hold the journal open for Charles to see, posture relaxed and trusting. Arthur’s eyebrows lift, the silent question, and Charles tries to control his smile at being given this.

It is a sketch of Sean and John, sitting across the fire and covered in flickering shadows, with John laughing and Sean looking offended about it. The lines are haphazard and messy, but it captures the life of them, the emotion in their faces. Sean’s half-hearted scowl. The tilt of John’s head towards the night sky. It is how Arthur sees them, alive and young and so very there.

Warmth floods Charles’ chest, makes it hard to breathe. So close to him, still smelling of gunpowder and sweat. Warm like only another body can be. He fights the urge to lean over in kind, to touch his fingers to the journal, let them drift down the page and to the rough skin of Arthur’s hands. Wants to.

A part of his mind reminds him of that terror he felt in the train car, watching Arthur fall and knowing there was nothing Charles could do to stop it, but he pushes that thought away. Tender as a new sprout poking out from a twirling maple seed. It means something, too heavy on his heart to face.

It must show on his face because Arthur smiles under the shelter of his hat, pulls the journal away, and nods to him. He goes back to sketching, with Sean and John still bickering across the fire, and Charles feels warmer than he has in a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: Any chapter I get to write Sean into becomes my new favorite chapter. He's just that good.


	19. Embers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did not plan for this to be a chapter all its own, but just some more bits and pieces I couldn't let go of before moving on. There will be more plot next chapter, I promise :D As always, thank you so much for reading, appreciate your kind words so much <3

When they return to camp, in late morning sunshine with dark circles under their eyes, with a bag full of money and valuables, Dutch takes the time to congratulate them all on a job well done. He makes a sweeping gesture with his hands about John’s planning, crows about how brave Arthur and Charles were to face off against the law. Not that anyone is really around or paying him much attention. He does it for the sake of it, Arthur knows, for the sake of praising them. Dutch claps a hand to Sean’s shoulder, making the boy jump, grin, and Arthur holds back a grimace. Sean deserves the recognition, he knows that. Needs it if he is ever going to be an outlaw worth a damn. It should not matter what Arthur thinks or how those dusty words are stuck in his head. _The devil, he will take everything from you._

The following days are calm, excepting the day Swanson wanders back to camp ranting about airships flying through the sky. His eyes are not all there, hands jittering, and Arthur feels a curdling wrongness in his stomach, wishes he could help the old fool. But, like so many times before, he leaves the Reverend’s care to Miss Grimshaw, watches her calm the old man until he can lie down and rest and not tremble with fear that the sky will crash down on him. Arthur listens to her kind words, her reassurances, and feels inadequate. Should he _change_ to be like that? To be kind in one moment and cruel in the next? Never been very kind to people before, he supposes. Still doesn’t know where to start.

He takes these days to rest, to read some books with Jack, to run some errands into town for the camp. To ignore the pressure sitting just under his shoulder blades. On one of these early mornings after an awful attempt at sleep, Arthur is the first awake. It feels strange to walk through camp with no one else around. He strikes a match to get a fire going and sets the coffee pot for the morning. When he sits down with his cup, the steam washes over his face and brings comfort to his tired bones.

Javier wanders over after a while, seeming the only other person up so early. Though, barely. He yawns and cups a hand over his mouth. “Morning, Arthur.” Javier pours himself a cup of coffee and stands in the dim sunshine, the hint of it peeking over the horizon. A touch of warmth over dark periwinkle mountain peaks. His weight shifts, back and forth, in limbo for a few moments too long, until he gives a shaky cough and settles on the log next to Arthur.

“Morning, Javier.” Arthur feels his eyebrows scrunch at the strange mannerism; Javier might be one of the most settled men he has ever met. Confident in what he says and does, always, never flaky like the rest. Not like him to hesitate in much of anything, not sitting down not throwing a punch not speaking his mind.

Javier glances at him, looks away, looks back and away again, and Arthur is not sure if he has ever seen Escuella so unsure about sitting down for a cup of coffee. Except way back when he was still trying to learn English and his place in the gang. Years and years ago. A scrawny man with hurt and fear in his eyes.

“Arthur if…if there’s anything I can do to help, please, let me know, brother.” The words are so quiet, so heartfelt. Arthur opens his mouth to reply but he cannot find the right words. Feels like he breathed in sawdust with how much he wants to cough and clear his throat. Javier looks back into the fire, “I know things have been tough lately. And you take on a lot on your own. You always have, but, I just…It looks like you’re taking on too much. And I can’t help if I don’t know what it is, you know? So…what is it? Some big job or…?”

Arthur stares, watches Javier fidget in his seat, looking around at just about everything in camp besides Arthur.

Arthur shuts his eyes, cool red behind his eyelids in the early sunlight, and heaves in a deep breath. “Javier…Thank you.” He looks into the fire and its crackling. Hates to leave Javier hanging in the silence but he is not sure what to say next. “It’s…It ain’t a job or nothing.” Not a full truth, but not a whole lie. Javier’s eyes narrow, starting to glare, and Arthur turns in his seat to face him fully, “Really. It isn’t. Hell, I wish it was something that easy. I just…I been thinking about some things an awful lot and I…” It is not enough, and staring into the grim set of Javier’s face, the strength that has always been a part of him, Arthur realizes it is too much. Too much to drop a hint too much to say anything about it. About all of it. _Changing_, and Dutch, and the rat, and all of it. It feels alright sometimes to mention this mess in his head to John, to Hosea, Lenny, Sean. Small words with no actions because any time Arthur thinks of acting on any of this it sets his stomach shaking. But Javier is different somehow, and Arthur wishes he knew why. “I don’t know. It’s personal stuff. Won’t hurt the gang any I just…Been dealing with it on my own.”

Javier stares at him a while, turns back to his coffee. “You’ve always been the strongest of us, Arthur. Seeing you worry like you have been…” Something tired sits behind his eyes.

It warms Arthur’s heart to think that anyone, Javier or otherwise, has noticed how out of sorts he is. He wonders though if he is still, or ever was, the strongest of them. Dutch, Hosea, Susan, all such stable voices in his life, have called him that at one time or another. It always made something rush around in his chest, made him stand taller, but now he’s not so sure. If he were stronger, he might know how to do this, how to keep the gang afloat, how to make Dutch see reason, how to say something that will make Javier feel better without lying to him.

Lying is what he does not dare do; Javier does not deserve that, and he would hear it so easily. And seeing the hurt and anger on Javier's face would be awful. “Don’t trouble yourself with my problems, Javier. Thank you for offering but…”

The answer is not what Javier wants out of the conversation, judging by his bowed head and his silence. But he looks at Arthur, meets his eyes with the honesty of cobwebs strung with dew in a spring morning. “Don’t worry too hard. Don’t want you turning old and gray and bitter like Hosea.”

Arthur huffs under his breath, takes a swallow of coffee, “Well, I reckon I’m about halfway there already.”

* * *

_“I’m busy.”_

Molly clasps her hands together, close to her chest, and feels the nails dig into her palms. Dutch’s tent, _their tent_ hovers around her too close, open on both ends to the night air but still too close. She unclenches her fingers, reminds herself to breathe in and out, focus on the smell of campfire smoke and the sound of the gang singing somewhere in the fire light. If she does not breathe, her temper will flare, it will burn, it will erupt just as it always does. Even all this way across the ocean, Molly can hear her mother, _“Keep a reign on that temper, Molly, or else no man is ever going to want to keep you.”_

Dutch is only a few feet away, on the other side of the canvas, the thinnest wall. Yet so far. All she did was ask if he wanted to come in for the night, maybe sit together and talk for a while, but he said,

_“I’m busy.”_

She understands that he is under a lot, that he has so much set on his shoulders. So many people and a mess of problems. Still. He ought to give her some of his time. Not like he ever really does anything when he says he will, when he needs quiet and time to think. Just sits on his own and pretends to read one of those books of his. A few months ago, and he would have been beside her, couldn’t have kept his hands off of her. Not that she wanted to. Dark eyes and warm hands and a deep voice that makes her feel like she is on top of the world.

But enough of dwelling on that, she thinks. A walk in the night air will do her good. That is what she tells herself as she smooths out her skirts and resettles her hair to fall over her shoulders. The nights are not so chilly as to keep her in here, and a walk around camp might do her good. She will have to avoid the horses, and their smell, but the others should all be in bed or at the fire so she should not run into anyone.

Night air drapes over her like a shawl, a dusting as light as coal soot, and she wanders away from the main fire, all of its noise and movement in the shadows of the flames. Good thing she left the tent rather than try to sleep; trying to sleep through all of their racket would have been a lost cause. In a small moment, to herself, as she skirts around the chuckwagon, she wonders when was the last time she stood near one of those fires in the dark, warmth on her face and in her belly and drifting through her ears and not wanting to leave the embrace of so many people.

A dark, hulking shape moves into her line of sight from around the corner of the wagon and her hear leaps into her throat,

“Oh, evening, Miss O'Shea.” It is Arthur, tipping his hat to her, hidden in so many dark shadows cast by the single, quiet lantern hanging from the wagon awning.

Her heart patters, and calms just as quick. “Oh, Arthur. You startled me.”

He ducks his head so his hat hides his face. “Sorry, Molly.” Voice sheepish and true. He has a few bottles of beer tucked under his arm. “Everything alright, Miss O’Shea? Pretty late to be wandering camp.” His voice is honest and deep, clear as mud as to what he means.

Molly feels her nerves bristle at the insinuation, though she is not sure of what. The spark snuffs out on its own, so fast she cannot even finish raising her voice with it. “Just taking a walk. Not that you…I just wanted some air.” One of her hands curls into a fist, trim nails against her palm.

Arthur does not rise to the bait of her tone, does not bow his head with another apology. He just looks off past her shoulder. “Care to join us at the fire?” He asks, expression so hard to read in the muted light. She thinks, hopes, the shadows are not hiding something cruel on his face. Arthur used to be a man she had a hard time pinning down; he is not one of the men who makes her uncomfortable just by standing too close, but he is not so innocent as Dutch would have her believe. Now though, now she questions those judgments from when she first joined the gang. Lately she has not even seen Arthur act cruelly to the O’Driscoll still in camp. Dutch has been saying...harsher things about Arthur, about how much more troublesome he is, how he won't listen, things that Molly has mostly swept under a rug to be forgotten about later. Because Arthur, for all his stoicism, has seemed kinder and more settled around the others. As far as Molly can tell, anyway. But would that shift be for her too? Could it?

She thinks of joining them at the fire. One of the girls will probably comment on how she never sits with them, how they must be so far beneath her now that she is with Dutch, and they are, but their cruelty would settle against her spine and harden like lacquer. She can brush them off all day but that does not mean that their words do not hold power. They know that just as well as she does.

“Oh, I don’t know…” And when she considers going back into the tent, _their tent_, she feels cold, a draft of air sneaking through loose floorboards, knows she will only lie in bed alone for untold hours unable to truly feel warm. The warmth of a campfire and people and laughter.

“Ah, c’mon. Just some singing and telling stories. Javier went and hid Uncle’s banjo again so there ain’t no risk to anyone’s ears.” He cracks a grin then, a handsome one she could think, if she had the inclination.

Molly risks a glance over to the fire. In a small burst of embers, she feels want fan in her lungs. “I suppose…”

Arthur nods and walks past her, such a tall man, and he gestures with his head for her to follow. “C’mon then. More the merrier.”

She follows, wondering all the while why she is. Such kindness from such a gruff man. Arthur’s silhouette nearly blocks out the fire, his shadow as broad as an ox. So, when they approach the fire, step into the firelight,

“Well look who decided to join us! The grand Miss Molly O’Shea!” Sean calls, drunk as a skunk and lolling against Lenny’s shoulder. Both of them look far gone in their cups, whiskey bottles in their hands. Karen sits on Sean’s other side, her face scrunched in a scowl like she is trying to set Molly on fire with the power of her glare alone.

Javier’s guitar slows for a few moments as the man looks up to notice her, but he gives Molly a nod and goes right back to playing. Fingers dancing quick over harsh strings. Mary-Beth sits on the ground next to him, and though Molly does not expect anything from her, she gives a polite smile before turning back to look into the campfire.

Arthur steps past Molly, passes out the beers to Uncle, to Karen, sets the last one down on the ground close to Javier’s hand. “There you go.” He sits down on one of the empty logs with a heavy sigh.

Molly stands on the fringe of firelight, unsure, worries in a sudden twist of nerves that this might be a trick to get her to look foolish in front of them, until Arthur waves for her to sit next to him. She hesitates, tries to think of why she shouldn’t, but the fire is warm and alive against her skin through the fabric of her dress, and she sits.

Karen scoffs under her breath, a little thing, but it strikes at Molly’s temper, flint sparks raining onto dry grass. Not catching yet. She is stronger than falling into a row so easily and settles for glaring back at Karen. At least that is what she tells herself.

Arthur looks around at the rest of the group, eyes unreadable under his hat and in the dark. “Y'all weren’t singing without me, were you?”

“Of course not, Arthur! We’d never!” Sean yelps out. His weight shifts and he nearly topples forward into the flames before catching himself.

“He was singing diddle-diddle-diddle under his breath.” Lenny tries to whisper it to Arthur, across the fire and in a voice far too loud for keeping secrets.

“Sean MacGuire. Shame on you.” Arthur says with such theatrics in his voice, joking disappointment that makes Sean’s face fall. It makes Lenny, Karen, Mary-Beth smile and snicker with laughter.

Molly keeps her eyes on the flames, tries to remember why she wanted to be here. She is not a part of this, has never wanted to be a part of this. Not since meeting Dutch, not since setting foot on land after crossing that too big ocean, she has never wanted to be a part of this, a part of a gang, this gang, a part of these criminals and low-lifes, a part of-,

“Arthur! I didn’t mean to!” Sean calls across the flames, looks close to standing up.

Arthur smiles, an earth splitting sort of one, and he waves a hand to Javier. “Kids nowadays don’t have a lick of respect for their elders. Would you mind playing that song, Javier?”

The guitar switches tune and they sing. It is a song Molly does not know – something loud and full of filthy turns of phrase. Sean and Lenny, drunk as they are, sing off-key and shameless for it.

“I put my hand upon her thigh, mark well what I do say! She says, ‘you’re getting pretty nice,’ and a diddle-diddle-diddle all day!”

The group gets rowdier with each verse, until there are whistles and whoops and laughter. So much laughter. Karen’s scowl fades over time, and soon enough she ignores Molly in favor of singing, and after a few lines she is laughing, snorting through her nose. Whenever she does it, Sean looks over at her and smiles, dopey and drunk and so far gone.

Arthur’s laugh is big and bellowing beside Molly, like a blacksmith’s forge. He sings along, loud and swooping like the others do, and Molly wonders if this is how he always is. Never seemed that way from where she was sitting back in the shelter of Dutch's tent, _their_ tent, all these months.

One song turns into another, then Uncle dives into some story that none of them ask for. Molly is not sure what keeps her sitting there, in the shadow of Arthur’s kindness. In the warmth of Javier’s guitar, the shy glances and smiles Mary-Beth keeps turning on her. Molly’s face feels so warm, a flush under her freckles.

Javier strums at the guitar, loud and sharp, to drown out Uncle’s voice, and the old man quiets with a wave of his arms, a laugh under his breath. The group bickers about what song to sing next, Lenny yells out something drunken and fuzzy.

Does Molly want to be a part of this? This, them? It isn’t that she is unsure, but she is not so sure as she thinks she should be. Feels like there is lake sand and silt rasping around in her throat. It is too much to be a part of them, too much of something she does not want, and she stands with as much conviction as she can muster. She hides the shaking of her hands by clutching them into the fabric of her skirt.

“Goodnight, everyone.” It is an excuse and it makes Javier’s strumming falter, just a little, but it is enough for the spell to break, the warmth rushes away as she steps out of the immediate circle. Leaves her colder than before.

Javier nods to her, holds her eye, “Goodnight, Miss O’Shea.”

Arthur calls a “Night, Molly” after her.

Sean calls something after her too, accent familiar yet not, but Molly is already walking back to Dutch's tent with steps she wishes were not so fast.

She hears her mother’s voice, echoing and old and half-forgotten now, _“No one is ever going to want to keep you.”_

* * *

“Arthur…This is…well, this is really something.” Hosea’s voice croaks a bit nowadays. A rasp, a sound of tearing dried rose petals. It is a sound Arthur wishes he could stop noticing. Wishes he could go back to a time when Hosea was immortal, could do no wrong, hung the moon up in the night sky. But now that he is older, wiser, he knows he cannot go back to such a time.

“Ah, it ain’t much. I know we ain’t rolling in cash no more but…I thought you-.” Arthur trails off, sets his hands on his hips because he does not know where else to set them. “Pearson helped me tan the hide. And the tent is just from one of them catalogs at the general store. But I thought, after them mountains you ought to…” He loses his words and lets them go, like catching a trout and letting it dive back into the flow of a river. A twist and a wriggle and it’s gone. Because it really isn’t much; the tent is around the same size as John’s but made of newly waxed canvas so it won’t leak and let in drafts like a bastard; the cot Arthur managed to find at the general store up in Strawberry; the bear pelt finally tanned and dried from that monster they went hunting for so long ago. Tucked into the bit of empty space between the medicine wagon and the main campfire, facing into camp with the cliff edges behind it. It isn’t much.

Hosea crosses his arms over his chest, drops them down to his sides, rubs a hand at the back of his neck. Seems he doesn’t know where to put his hands either. He stares at the tent, the cot with the bear pelt draped across it, a space just for him. He stares.

Hosea had his own tent a long time ago. Years and years ago back before Bessie married the old fool. Arthur remembers it, the old saddle blanket folded at the foot of the cot, the apple box tucked underneath to hold his books, the oil lamp hanging from the top tent post. Dark canvas that held in the warmth of the sun long after it set. After Hosea left to be with Bessie, the tent stayed packed up, until they lost the wagons after a few too many risky robberies. Just one of those things they lost along the way. When Hosea came back to them, after Bessie passed, after he came back for good, he spent near a year down the neck of a whiskey bottle, slumped around camp and useless. A time Arthur hates remembering.

But the old man came out of it, stayed with them, back to his chipper self as though none of it had changed him. But it did, it so obviously did. A curve to his shoulders and a quiet sadness in his eyes on rainy mornings. He never replaced the tent, just shared one of the lean-tos with Javier, said there wasn’t much point in getting a tent for himself. Didn’t need a space for himself, Escuella might get lonely, better things to worry about, no need to spend our money on an old bat like me.

Maybe, once upon a time, it unsettled Arthur how Dutch had the nicest tent among them all. He cannot remember when that time was, though. Back when he was young and stupid enough to think such things. But after that bubble of a thought it stopped occurring to him as strange. Just was the way it was. But now, after _the devil_, after _betray me_, it bothers him. It bothers him so much that one man gets a heavy canvas tent with a pallet floor, while the rest of the gang sleeps on the ground or close to it. Bothers him that he and John are the only others to even have cots. Bothers him that one of the first improvements for the camp Dutch wrote down in the ledger after they arrived here was for his own tent, for his own comfort, for no one else. New blankets and carpets and a replacement pipe for the woodstove he has tucked in there. Bothers him that Hosea, a man who has kept them together for so long, who has saved them all so many times over, sleeps on the ground.

Hosea’s hand, so light so frail even though Arthur knows the man is anything but, claps him on the shoulder, draws him in close to lean on him. He is getting shorter in his old age, standing half a foot shorter than Arthur remembers, and he feels a rush of vertigo at realizing how much time has passed, how long it has been since Hosea first stepped into his life and made everything feel alright. “Thank you, my boy. Thank you.” The words, his smile, quiet and subtle as an owl cooing in the dark, sink warm into the knobs of Arthur’s spine.

* * *

The crying stopped a long time ago. A dam finally constructed and left to cure. Water filling up behind it and meant to be forgotten. Abigail doesn’t know how Sadie managed it, but she did, and that fierceness is scary in a maddening sort of way.

“You’ll be safe here with us until you get back on your feet properly. Ain’t no good reason for you to go wandering around on your own. No one is going to make you go; we ain't like that. It’s tough out there for anyone to be by themselves.” Abigail says to her, knows Sadie is listening even though she is staring out over the overlook cliffs. Her mouth opens to reply, maybe, but a hiccup overtakes her throat and she bows her head to keep the rest of the sorrow down. Lank hair falling in her face. She does not cry anymore, at least not when Abigail has been close enough to hear. She knows it is not any sort of embarrassment or shame that keeps the tears at bay; grief is heavier than that, solid and stagnant, like the muck floating at the surface of a pond.

In a moment of selfishness too ugly to name, Abigail feels glad that this is not the state of her own life. Maybe hers’ is far from perfect, on the run all the time and John being the way he is, but she has Jack. She has Jack. And she has people around who care about her, like Hosea, and Arthur, and Susan in her odd way. And maybe John to, in his way. Does not know, does not want to think of, where she might have ended up if not for them.

She looks down at her hands, hides those thoughts away in a locked chest deep in her mind because they are such cruel, insensitive things. Awful things that help nothing. The shame of thinking like that curdles in her guts, makes her wring her hands. The rock they sit on is far from the noise of camp, sandwiched between the tents and the open air of the river canyon beyond. If she turns her head and squints through the light of the sun, she can see Jack playing on the far edge of camp, with Javier standing close by to keep an eye on him.

“Miss Roberts,” Sadie draws in a shuddering breath and Abigail turns back to her, “Thank you.” Her eyes are steely, white hot iron in the flames of a forge, and that is the bravery Abigail has never been able to miss about Mrs. Adler. Saw it in those first few days in Colter, even through the tears and the nightmares. It scares the hell out of Abigail, such an intense thing, but that fire is a courage to live through anything life throws. Even now, beaten down and sick with sorrow as Sadie is, she sits, and she straightens her spine and breathes through it. It is a courage Abigail thinks she herself does not have a fraction of, not really.

“Life will go on, Sadie. That’s the truth of it. And I don’t see that fire you got in you going out any time soon – not in someone as brave as you.” The words make Sadie huff under her breath, and she shakes her head at the muddy ground under their shoes, but she sits up straighter than before. Lets her lungs expand with air that does not catch on the emotions still held tight around her throat. Embers catching on dry kindling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: My love for Molly O'Shea knows no bounds.


	20. Sheep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Blood.

“Sheep?”

“Yeah. Sheep.”

“Sheep…You know, I said we needed a _big _take, right? You heard when I said that. I know you did. You were standing right there.” Arthur grins at how hard John rolls his eyes, but his brother heaves a heavy sigh and has a hint of a smile on his face. They are loitering in the shadow of a barn at the Valentine livestock pens. When Pearson passed on the message that John wanted to meet him in Valentine, Arthur had felt surprise at how quick his brother was turning up work for them. Not like him. Maybe because he was laid up for so long with his wounds. John always was the first man to get cabin fever.

“You think you’re so funny.” John spits into the muck at their feet.

“Oh, I know I’m funny.” Arthur cracks a smile and tries to hide his happiness at seeing a matching smile on John's ugly mug. Like balm over bruised knuckles.

It falls quickly, though, and John turns away, “Follow me. Already picked up a new rifle we can use to get us some sheep.”

“They’re worth a hell of a lot more alive than dead, I reckon.” Arthur settles his hands on his belt and walks after his brother, tries not to laugh when John glares back at him.

“I know that! Gonna shoot near them as they’re coming in for market and scare off the ranch hands. Doesn’t need to be a big thing. Besides we need all the money we can get until we can collect in Blackwater.” John tucks his head down and walks to a hitching post where he has Old Boy tied up. Arthur whistles for Rosie and follows after him.

He looks around before he speaks, checks to see if anyone is listening. “Collecting in Blackwater is damn near impossible, John. I know you know that. With all of that law hanging around it would be a death sentence for any one of us to try and go back.” Arthur thinks of the take Dutch claims they got from the Blackwater heist. Thousands in cash and gold. He knows Dutch hid it somewhere, in the rush to leave camp and flee up into the mountains, but he thinks about it now in a different light. That sprout of hope lingering under his lungs, pushing and growing, twining the beginnings of vines around his ribs. They have a lot of money sitting somewhere in that town, and it could be put to use for something more than just keeping on with this outlaw life.

“Dutch says-,”

Arthur huffs under his breath, does not mind much how sneering his tone might be, “Dutch says a lot.”

John falters in jumping into Old Boy’s saddle, pauses a moment to stare at the stallion’s flank before hopping up. He glances over to Arthur, a look in his eyes that might be anger, might be fear, Arthur can’t tell. “What do you mean?”

Like he so often has to now, Arthur swallows down his own worry and says, “His gift is saying things. I used to be his prize pony and now I’m just a workhorse.” Arthur hikes up onto Rosie’s back and settles his hands on the smooth leather of the saddle. “Dutch is…he’s different, now. You said you’ve seen it. It’s…It’s starting to really worry me. I mean, we shouldn’t be hanging around here with Pinkertons about. Should have packed up and left a while ago. And that line about waiting to collect in Blackwater…I don’t see us ever getting that chance. It’s like he just says it to shut us up. Make it seem like he knows where all of this is going. Keep us with him, following him.”

The words are damning, and Arthur hears as much just after he says them. Too much venom. A step too far. He sees John’s shoulders tense and how he looks away, avoids Arthur’s eye, and it was too far.

“The hell are you talking about? I know you’ve been on about how the gang is going to have to end someday, but I ain’t never heard you talk about Dutch like that. It’s…You…” John clamps his mouth shut, jaw tensing as he grinds his teeth. Tucks his words away behind his eyes. “C'mon, let’s go. Sooner we get this done the sooner we can head back.” His voice is coarse and angry, sand thrown into his eyes, like when they were young, when pissing off his little brother was all Arthur ever wanted.

Arthur fumbles for something, anything, to say. Hates the sight of John's turned back. Feels too final and awful. Makes fear nip at his heels. _You’re going to die._ But he doesn’t know what to say. The air catches in his throat like a horse stumbling before a jump. His face feels too warm and red.

John rides Old Boy toward the train station at the edge of Valentine, and Arthur can only follow. They ride over the rail tracks and head east toward the plains. John steers them to Citadel Rock, proud and imposing in the sunshine, and Arthur feels his lungs decompress. Dread he did not realize was rising in his stomach simmers down; the only other way east would be through Twin Stacks pass and Arthur feels the urge to vomit at the mere idea of moving back through there. Blind eyes and dust and white and blue. _Change. Blood. You’re going to die._

John must read something on his face or in the tension of the air, because he clears his throat and looks away, “Just…don’t want a bunch of people seeing us head that way. Twin Stacks is too easy to get ambushed in.” That is a lie, a fluffy white one, Arthur hears it, but calling his brother on it will not get him anywhere. And besides, he wants to be as far away from that canyon as he can be; nothing much good comes out of Twin Stacks pass.

They circle around Citadel Rock, keeping the horses at a slow trot up the hill. An east wind sings across the plains carrying the stink of the oil fields. It makes Arthur feel like tar is gathering at the back of his throat, and he spits into the trail dust under Rosie’s clomping hooves.

“So.” Arthur coughs into the air and tries to remember how to do this, tries to fight down the rising fear that John will just ignore him. Will shut him out with that anger always simmering under the surface of him. “How you been feeling? All healed up?” Arthur’s words come out like a sparrow slamming into a glass window.

“What are you talking about? Healed from…Oh, I…Yeah, been healed over for a while. Ain’t so sore anymore.” John brings a hand up to the back of his head and rubs at his neck. Nervous, unsure.

Arthur stares off to a lone oak tree sitting out on the plains, branches bare and sickly with scale rot. Keep going, keep trying. “You and Jack been getting along alright?”

“I guess.”

“You and Abigail keeping it civil?”

“I guess.”

_“Well guessing isn’t going to help much of anything now is it?” _The words start welling up in his throat, but Arthur holds them back. The pause in the air now is one John needs to broach on his own. And after a while, he does.

“I mean…She’s always after me about something. How I talk to Jack or I ought to be working or come lift this please.” John rambles, his hand waving in the air, and Arthur turns away to keep from laughing at him. “And sometimes it isn’t even something about me! Sometimes it’s like she just complains to hear herself talk. About how this life ain’t good for Jack, or how it might be better somewhere else. Like I don’t know that. Don’t know what she expects me to do about it.”

They approach the crossroads leading toward Emerald Ranch, a signpost sitting in the shadow of the canyon walls. He can see that spot, _change_, in the distance, and the roadside sits empty. Blustering plains sand and tumbleweed splinters. Not sure what he would do if Old Man Cassidy were standing there.

“Why the hell do you care?” John’s voice rises, not quite angry yet, the blunt edge of an axe, but it makes Arthur turn back to him. “Why are you like this all of a sudden? In all the years we been doing this, and I don’t think you’ve ever asked me nothing like that. At least, not…not like…What is it with you? You’re talking like all this matters to you.”

Arthur ducks his head, cannot help but remember his nightmares, the scream of bullets and rope and smoke and voices. Wonders at the terror of such things. _Change for them. Fight for them._ “Well, I do care, John. Care about little Jack, and Abigail. Want to keep them safe. And you…” He lifts his head and stares past Rosie's swiveling ears. “You’re my brother, John. Want to keep you safe in all of this too.”

John chews on that as they start up an incline, going off the road and up a game trail. He mumbles under his breath, as if he does not want to admit this to Arthur or to the world. “Well then you sure have an odd way of showing it. Thought you wanted me dead and gone the past few years.”

Regret, anger, bitter as licorice root. Not that he regrets all of those years and keeping John at arms length; anger, betrayal, is a hell of a thing. The part he regrets is missing those years. This distance between them now that Arthur doesn’t know how to broach. And he wants to. In this moment of dust and harsh sunlight he realizes he wants to. Misses having his brother at his back like he has never missed anything more in his life.

They approach the top of the hill and turn the horses around to look out over the edge. It’s a good vantage point over the valley, the sprawling hills of dry-choked grass and brush. Their little spot is not well protected, but they shouldn’t need much of any cover to get this done.

“Sheep herd should come through here in the next hour.” John says, leaning his elbows against the horn of Old Boy’s saddle.

“Well we best get to waiting, then.” Arthur says, hopping down from Rosie’s saddle. He gives her shoulder a pat as she starts to munch on the dry grass underfoot. He tries to build up momentum again, kicks at a chunk of rock by his boots.

“I…I’ve been trying to be better, John. And I will be the first to admit that hasn’t always gone so well.” John scoffs and Arthur can practically hear the eye roll that follows, “I just…I’m tired of being angry. I’m tired of holding something against you when we have bigger things to worry about. I-,” The wind whistles between them, and Arthur tries to make himself say something more, drag words up out of the muck sitting in his stomach.

But John beats him to it, lets out a tumble of words sounding as tough as pumice. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I am.” He pauses, head switching from looking at Arthur to the horizon to the ground and back again. “I know I’ve said that too many times, and I know leaving the gang was wrong, but I-,” John draws the back of his hand over his mouth. “I just couldn’t stay. Needed to be gone. And I thought…I thought out of everyone you would understand. That. Because you…Hell I don’t know anymore.” John jumps off of Old Boy’s saddle and kicks at the dust too.

Arthur thinks of the fine lines around Eliza’s eyes, the pitch of Isaac’s laugh. Thinks of telling John about them and that thought makes his stomach cramp up like he ate bad meat. A shiver draws up his spine and he feels so cold. Never mentioned her and Isaac to anyone, except Dutch, Hosea, and only when they saw something was wrong, when Arthur came back with a sort of grief on his tongue. He closes his eyes, keeps them shut. “I didn’t get it then, and I still don’t get it now. But that don’t matter anymore. Bigger fish to fry. You came back. And you’re here. So, stop trying to be two different people, that’s all I’m saying.”

“I… I am sorry, Arthur. Always have been. Wasn’t trying to hurt the gang. I just…”

They stand in limbo for a while. Arthur stares out over the horizon and watches the roads, tracks the folks riding by. He knows John will broach the silence first, so he waits him out. Feels like he always has to wait him out. Even as a kid, John always took his time figuring shit out.

“What you said before…” John’s voice rises out of the sagebrush, rattles just like those dry branches. “Did you mean…Did you mean what you said about the gang? About Dutch?”

Arthur stares out over the valley, the heat waves and the dust, does not want to look at John and scare his brother away from hearing this. “Had an epiphany recently, John. Been doing a lot of thinking.” Arthur rubs his hands together, feels the rough skin of his fingertips. Tries to ground himself in something real.

“That’s a first.”

“Shut your mouth. I’m being serious. Been thinking that…this is bound to end sometime, you know? Us and Dutch and the gang. The West. It’s all going to end someday.” Arthur feels the weight of John’s stare, perched on his shoulder. Such a pressure to get this right. “I’m just starting to think…Couple more years, maybe sooner, and this ride of Dutch’s is not going to survive in this world. But the way he’s been lately…I don’t see him hanging up his hat. Ain’t in his nature to let all of this lie. And when that end comes it ain’t going to be pretty. I’ve been thinking I don’t want to be around to see that end. People are going to get hurt if we keep following down Dutch’s path and I…I don’t want to see anyone hurt.” His words rush away from him and he lets them. A herd of deer startled into fleeing. No chance of catching them, no reason to try to.

“I…Yeah. I don’t either.” John says it, dragging his heels with a pause. But his voice is carved into stone now. Settled and weathered. Arthur’s body jolts where he stands; expected a yell, something tinged with harsh anger. “I been…doing some thinking too. Thinking maybe…all the things Dutch goes on about might not be so…might not have as much truth to ‘em as they used to.”

“Well would you listen to that. My brother went and had a thought and I wasn’t there to witness it.” It comes from that old habit, but Arthur smiles with it, calm draping over his shoulders again with the familiarity of it and hearing John agree with him.

There is a smile in John’s voice, the smallest kind. “Will you shut up? I just…I don’t know. We been in worse binds before, of course, but… I’ve just been getting such a bad feeling about all this.”

“I understand. Been worrying about where all of this is going to spit us out.” Arthur nods along, and he feels the shift in the air between them, knows these are damning words, but at least now they share them, these traitorous thoughts that seem more and more likely the longer Arthur dwells on them.

“Well then, I suppose it’s a good thing you have me around to watch your back.” John says. Arthur looks over to him, meets his brother’s eye, sees the tense, anxious worry that Arthur will only laugh in his face, and he feels his lungs expand without any weight holding them down for the first time in such a long time. Maybe that fortune set off a whole lot of hell, but he still has John, still has something in this world tying him to it. Still _the devil_ but _save them so they may save you_. Supposes he ought to give John the chance for that.

“And I’ll watch yours in all this mess. Now lets wrangle us some sheep.”

* * *

They steal sheep. Arthur nearly feels bad for scaring off the ranch hands; they’re just a bunch of kids doing their jobs. Only nearly, though.

The ride back is tense. Not between him and John – that is closer to fine than it has been in a long, long while.

“You don’t even know how to herd sheep do you, Marston? Is this why you brought me along? Knew an idiot such as yourself couldn’t get these things half a mile down the road?”

“Oh, shut up!”

No, what bothers him like a knife stabbing into his belly is the trail ride back. The sheep bleat and the sun burns on the back of his neck and they ride through Twin Stacks pass. Too close to it to bother making the trip around Citadel Rock. That spot, _I can see it. Your future. You’re going to die _still sits empty in the distance, drawing ever closer, and it makes Arthur’s spine shudder.

They pass through that space, through the canyon and the lonely dirt, and Arthur holds his breath so hard it feels as though his lungs are about to burst with it. John is silent through it, thankfully. Arthur keeps his head tucked down, shoulders around his ears, until they are back on open plains again, clomping over the railroad tracks and herding the sheep down the road. He expected something, not nothing, and it unnerves him more than if Old Man Cassidy had been standing there, coffee can empty and eyes clear.

When they reach Valentine, John sets his hands on his belt and start handling the business of selling the sheep over. It’s his job after all, and Arthur stands back, squares his shoulders to look intimidating like he knows he can, but he leaves his brother to it.

Until the smarmy little man with the clipboard demands twenty-five percent of the take to keep his mouth shut. The two men behind him are big, burly, sure, but Arthur knows they could handle the three easily. Him and John have gone up against far worse odds than this. That thought occurs to him, red and singing and violent, and his body twitches with the instinct to step forward. Wants to growl in their faces and make them flinch. But he stops, breathes, remembers the people back at camp and how bad it could be if they added more trouble onto the gang’s plate.

“How about fifteen?” Arthur asks the air, keeps his head tucked down and his fingers in the pockets of his jeans. John might yell at him for this later, might not.

“I won’t take less than twenty.” Smarmy fires back.

“Eighteen.” John rasps, standing tall and unmoving.

“Done.”

John shakes the man’s hand, and Arthur follows suit, throws in a “Pleasure doing business with you” for the hell of it. Smarmy tries to hide the surprise on his face, lips open and trembling like a guppy, before smashing that down with a, “Come back after the auction and I’ll have your money for you.”

They walk back to the horses and Arthur tries to tamp down his disappointment over the job. Used to be so easy to steal livestock and sell it across a county line. Just a few years ago and folks didn’t ask quite so many questions. Now, though, now it is getting harder and harder to work under the pressures of civilization.

“Alright. Back to camp, then.”

“Ah, actually, Dutch is waiting for us at the saloon in town.” John jerks a thumb back over his shoulder, but his arm goes limp after a moment, seems to reconsider his tone with the mention of Dutch.

Arthur sighs, readjusts his suspenders so they don’t dig into his shoulders quite so hard. “Alright then. Off we go.”

John leads him to the dive on the outskirts of the town. Not quite a saloon and more of a shack, now that he gets closer. The Count stands hitched outside, bright as a lighthouse lamp. Arthur walks up the creaking steps after John, feels his hands shake, and digs his nails into his palms.

* * *

The saloon really is just a bar and some bottles of liquor. A table or two. And Arthur sits down when Dutch beckons for him to because out of all his habits, that one will never die. He sits, Dutch sends John and Strauss out of the saloon for some reason, and Arthur bites his lip to keep from reaching out and keeping John in here. This fortune is making him so weak, but he can’t care. Just wishes he did not have to be so alone in this. So, he stares into the glass of whiskey Dutch pours for him and lets the man prattle on without listening much.

“-bookish Austrian fresh off the boat, eyes out on stalks.” Dutch says it with a smile, a grin, or at least that is what Arthur manages to see when he forces himself to look up and make eye contact for just a moment. Any more than a moment and his stomach hurts. Wishes John were still here. Hell, he wishes Strauss were still here. At least then it would not be just him and Dutch, sitting at a table and drinking whiskey, something that Arthur liked to do not two months ago. He never really wanted the money for himself, never enjoyed the ugly side of outlaw fame, or the adrenaline of gunfights and chasing down trains – he just wanted Dutch’s regard, his recognition, an acknowledgement from a man who saved him from so much.

Now that he has it, in this moment, he wants nothing more than to stand up and leave.

The silence between them hangs as Dutch tries to sort out what to say. Arthur does not have the energy, the space, to assist. “To your good health.” Dutch toasts, and Arthur forces his arm to rise and clink glasses.

_The devil._

The whiskey burns on the way down his throat, and he is reaching for the bottle before he can think better of it. Might as well. No harm in it. The muted light of the bar windows glints off of Dutch’s rings, huge gold things that make a bubble of anger rise up out of Arthur’s stomach.

“Van der Linde!” A shout from outside the bar, voice unfamiliar, and Arthur glances up to gauge Dutch’s reaction. It isn’t good, a look Arthur knows so well after all these years, a thin veil over genuine panic, and with a squinted look and a nod they both get up from their seats and crouch down.

“You don’t know me! But you keep robbing me! My name is Leviticus Cornwall! I am not a man to be messed with by the likes of you. Now get out here before I have these men killed!”

Arthur rushes to the window, peers out, and his heart drops. John and Strauss with guns to their heads. Held in the street by more men than Arthur can shoot in a few seconds. Eight at least. Rosie, and the Count, are gone from the hitching posts, shooed off he hopes. He leans back against the wall, watches Dutch peek out to see the same, all the while Cornwall shouts at the top of his lungs.

In the quiet of the bar, the still air, Dutch asks, his voice as cold as dropping down through lake ice and something strange in his eyes. “What do you think? Sneak out the back?” He turns back to the window, eyes darting over the street.

Arthur stares. Through the blood rushing in his veins, through the pounding of a hammer at his temples, he stares. Stares into the side of Dutch’s head as if he has never met this man before in his life. And for a moment he feels as though he hasn’t – has never met this man. This man crouching in the safety of this bar and asking if they should scurry out the back door like cowards. Asking if it is worth the risk to run out there and save those two men. This man who would rather save his own skin than risk saving John’s life.

Cornwall shouts some blather Arthur cannot care about, then rides off further into town, taking two of the men with him. In a mess of hoofbeats their odds just got a lot better. Dutch does the same recalculation and pounces on it, rushes to the door and grabs the handle. “I’ll start talking, you shoot when you have a chance.” He opens the door slow, not checking for Arthur’s nod, not making eye contact, and steps out into the light.

“Gentlemen, please, this is a terrible mistake-,” Dutch starts stretching yarns, lying, like he does, and Arthur stops listening. He pushes his body forward out onto the saloon porch and the early afternoon sunshine, looks into John’s eyes for only a moment. A moment is all he allows himself and if he looks for much longer the fear and the anger will wash over him, engulf him. John is staring right at him, ignoring the arm across his throat and the knife pressed there. Damn near fifteen years of having a brother and of course today is the day he realizes he cannot stand to lose that or else he might just lose everything.

In the next moment red washes over his eyes and he draws his pistol and fires. The two men holding John and Strauss, the man with a rifle behind them, go down in a spatter of blood. Dutch squawks at the interruption, but fires and takes out the other two men standing guard. Before the bodies can fall and come to rest in the mud, Arthur is already rushing toward John, grabbing him by the shoulders and dragging him off between the two houses across the street. The ground is a mess of mud and he can hear wagons approaching from the train station. Strauss follows along behind them, a desperate hand clutching at Arthur’s jacket.

Horses scream behind them and Arthur turns to fire again, three more shots taking out men with heavy rifles, and he shouts over the din of horses and gunfire and panic. “Get our horses and lets go!” He hears John whistle for Old Boy, but he can only focus on firing at the men swarming the streets, more coming from the direction of the sheriff’s office.

“Arthur! John! Stay with me! We need to push up! Take the fight to them!” Dutch shouts over the cacophony, crouching behind a few crates at the mouth of the alley. His face is twisted in a grim grin of teeth. He turns back to them, waves his arm as if to usher them forward, and Arthur starts backing away.

The yards at the back of the houses offer little cover, and as they rush into the open space, a few men with guns appear from the alleys between the bank, the hotel. He and John shoot as best they can, trying to keep moving. Strauss fires a few shots that are bound to go wide, and Arthur can see a pair of horses galloping up the hill from the livestock pens. Rosie’s blazing coat and Old Boy’s bright mane. So close, just a little more.

“Arthur! John! We do not run!” Dutch roars after them, but still follows and shoots blindly behind him.

“Are you crazy? There’s too many, Dutch!” John shouts through everything.

Another pair of shots, more downed guards, and the yard clears enough for Arthur to push at Strauss’ shoulder, “C’mon! We have to get out of here!” and they make a break for the horses. Rosie wheels around slow enough for Arthur to get a leg up, pulls Strauss along with him and practically throws him across the back. John does the same with Old Boy, scrambling into the saddle as the mess of noise from the main street gets closer and closer.

Arthur looks around for Dutch, trying to keep track of him through the sweat and the fear and his own anger. “Dutch!? Dutch come on!” He knows deep down he will not leave Dutch behind, he isn’t like that, will not be that way, not now, not ever.

John must have the same thought; he reaches back behind him, an open hand for Dutch to grab and jump on. Dutch fires off a shot at one of the balconies, stares for a bit too long at John’s hand. Moments between seconds, but it drags so long in this adrenaline haze they are in.

But the Count careens into the yard from one of the alleys, screaming with eyes blown wide in alarm. Dutch makes a run for his horse and Arthur has his spurs against Rosie’s sides, urging her into a fast run down the hill, past the livestock barns, past the ominous outline of the executioners platform. They ride as fast as they can go, but the chase ends past the rail tracks. None of the men are following when Arthur peeks behind, and he slows to let Strauss readjust his seat.

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan. You-you saved my life back there.” Strauss’s hands scramble to keep ahold of the edge of the saddle, trying to hold on to Arthur’s jacket without restricting his movement.

“Suppose so.” Arthur mumbles back, feels so tired.

“Let’s head back to camp, boys. Seems like we’ve overstayed our welcome here!” Dutch shouts even though he does not need to. He pushes the Count faster, leaving John and Arthur to try and keep up.

Going through the motions of going back to camp, feels like he has made this trip a thousand times over, Arthur moves around in a haze. Rosie pushes through the bracken and saplings, stalls herself at a hitching post. Strauss drops from the saddle, says something, another thanks maybe, before moving off. John says something, lost in the roar in Arthur’s ears. He drops from the saddle too, but he stands there a while trying to get his legs back underneath him. He trembles, a full body shudder, and he feels like he cannot keep his head steady.

When he looks up again, feels like he can try to at least, camp is buzzing worse than a kicked hornets nest. Miss Grimshaw and Pearson are shouting for everyone to pack up, loading wagons, taking down tents, all of it. The clamor of camp being moved, the sound he wishes he had heard days and days ago. Before all of this mess came down on their heads. He muddles his way through, stepping around people, not seeing much of anything as he moves toward Dutch’s tent.

The look Dutch had on his face back in the bar, in the yard, the distrust, it makes Arthur’s eyes sting, makes the skin on his arms itch. He wonders if he will ever get used to that look, that feeling, the knowledge that someone he once trusted with so much seems to no longer trust him either.

“Is your plan really for us to keep heading east?” He hears Hosea’s voice before he sees him. The old man is there, with Dutch, looking over a map of the territory. Arthur stops in the mouth of the tent, feels like his nerves are about to shatter.

“For now.” Dutch glares into the map, looks close to catching the paper on fire.

“And when do we stop? When we reach Paris? We were supposed to be lying low here. That’s what you told me.” Hosea’s voice rises. The warning yip of a fox.

“And I meant what I said.” Dutch huffs, still keeping his eyes downcast to the map.

“We’ve turned into a bunch of killers, Dutch. I mean it. It is delusional to think we are anything _but_ killers anymore.” Hosea voice quiets.

“We are just trying to survive, Hosea. We don’t have a choice.”

Hosea stands and starts walking out of the tent, waves his hands in a way that says he is done listening to Dutch’s hot air, a familiar motion. But he stops. In the mouth of the tent he stops beside Arthur, takes a deep breath, and turns back. “We are turning into killers, Dutch. This is going to end soon, and if we don’t keep our heads, people are going to get hurt.”

There is a hand patting at Arthur’s shoulder, frail and strong, and then Hosea moves out of the tent.

Dutch heaves a heavy sigh. “Seems like the old man is getting too old for this.” He glances up to Arthur, and scowls at the map again. “Cornwall said I was finished. Can you believe that, Arthur? Well, I’ll show him finished. No, I am far from finished.” He waves for Arthur to move forward, and he cannot help but follow.

His ears are still ringing, vision still hazy, and that scares him so bad. It makes whatever Dutch prattles on about seem so unimportant, until the end. “-and Charles go take a look. Run off anyone you find before the rest of us follow in.”

“Sure. Sure.” Arthur cannot will himself to argue, so he takes a look at the map where Dutch is pointing, and turns away, walks across the wooden boards and out of the tent.

“Son.” Dutch calls after him, and Arthur wonders if he could keep walking if he really tried. If he really wanted to ignore Dutch, turn away from all those years, maybe he could. But change like that is too much for him. He stops, turns and looks over his shoulder. “Son, I wanted to thank you for what you did back there. You saved John and, well…things might have been worse if you hadn’t pulled us away.”

The admission is odd, as Dutch does not often admit to faults, but Arthur’s head feels too full of other things to really bother with it. Like how he calls him ‘son’. Calling him son, is. It is. It. And after all of that. It. To give such a reminder.

So, he just nods and walks off. Out into the open air and the darkening light of late afternoon. In the rush around camp, he spots Charles loading a crate into one of the wagons, and he walks over before his eyes can get lost tracing the shift of Charles’ arms, the muscles underneath his skin.

“Charles.” Arthur calls, flags him down, and when Charles turns to him, solemn face and such patient eyes, “I need you to ride with me to-,” Arthur’s words leave him. He ducks his head until he can stare into the dirt, try to will his mouth to say what he needs to. He knows he will get the words back, they always come back, but for now, staring into the muddy wagon tracks under his boots, they seem so far away.

“Of course.” Solid. Steady. Warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: I finally finished a playthrough of RedDead2. It took me over a year because I just couldn’t say goodbye to my Arthur. But I finally did it. I made it to the Epilogue. And now I am Sad. Sad with a capital S.
> 
> Stay safe and healthy everyone!


	21. Lemoyne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *posts chapter and then immediately goes back to playing Animal Crossing*

Arthur’s words, his eyes and ears, come back to him at some point halfway to Lemoyne county, riding along the trail that switch backs over the railroad tracks. Feels like coming up for air after swimming too long under the surface, and he coughs to hide that.

The lake sits heavy to the south, cool and murky on the air. Charles has yet to say a word, and Arthur wishes in a desperate way that he would. Would say something, anything, and soothe Arthur’s nerves with his voice, soften the itching red crackle of his skin breaking apart. But he doesn’t. Patient as stone.

“Sorry. Ah…need to check out a new spot for the camp. Place called Dewberry Creek on the border. Make sure it’s safe before everyone moves.” Rosie and Taima are already trotting the right way, and Arthur wonders just how long he has been out of it.

“You alright? You sound…” Charles will not put a name to it, too kind for that, or maybe he would but holds himself back for Arthur’s sake.

“Yeah I…I’m just tired of all this. Of-,” He shuts his mouth. Not fair to put this on Charles, the hell it has been to see Dutch acting so different.

They pass through a clump of brush, the trail narrowing, and a flock of starlings takes flight at the sound of the horse’s hooves. The birds take to the air, flying together in a mass of movement and feathers against the dulling warmth of the sky.

“So much for the plan to lie low for a while.” Charles says in a soft voice. Soft as a deep canyon can be.

“Lying low. Right. There is no lying low with him. Lying low would be like admitting we’re nothing but a bunch of low-down criminals. And he’ll never admit that.” Arthur’s tongue runs away with him, but after talking to John this morning, and seeing this new face of Dutch back in that Valentine bar, he cannot help himself.

“But we are.” Charles’ tone is so unconcerned, a stone dropped into mud. _Thump_.

“I agree. We are.”

_“We’re turning into killers.” _Hosea’s words sink in so harshly, and Dutch’s ignoring them, the claims of doing what they need to for survival, of not having a choice, the thought of it makes Arthur’s skin burn. He knows who he is deep down; his hands have drawn too much blood to be anything but a killer. His bounty, this way of life, it is that of a criminal, nothing else. No room for anything else. But that does not mean they need to do things like they have been.

“Where does it end?” Charles finally asks as they pass through a thicket of brambles and poplar saplings. The road is narrow, drifting up and down hill as they go along. Arthur only has a chance to clear his throat and look over to him, before Charles adds, maybe just to himself, “The moving, the running.” His tone is so weary, and it makes Arthur’s shoulders ache in kind.

“Dutch always says we aren’t running from anything.”

“He can call it what he wants. I wasn’t asking what Dutch thinks of it.” Still so unruffled. Some inevitability in Charles’ voice, the crack and crash of a tree falling. Arthur wishes he had a fraction of the same in his own lungs right now.

Arthur’s throat feels so dry and raw. “Running is all we’ve ever done. It used to be easy – put enough time and distance between us and our problems and eventually they went away. But now…I’m starting to think this gang, this life, ain’t going to last for much longer.” It feels alright to share something like this with Charles, something so fearful and unsure. That thought ought to scare the hell out of him, and it does, but it feels alright in the same breath.

“Someone as high up as you are, saying that…Makes me wonder how all of this is going to play out.” The hesitation in Charles’ voice makes Arthur pause, wishes he knew what to say to help with it.

“You and me both.” They pass over the rail tracks again, hooves clopping.

“You think…You think that will happen soon? The gang disbanding?” Charles asks quiet and under his breath, as if he is afraid the songbirds flitting along the trail will hear him.

Those words, coming from someone usually so level-headed, and hearing them spoken aloud for once, feels like the strike of a donkey kick. “I…I don’t think it’s that far gone. Dutch ain’t about to quit, that’s for sure.”

A grunt of a reply without words is all Charles gives. Arthur wants to say something that might allay some of those worries, but the open space of the plains comes into view, a dry creek bed, and he frowns.

Charles pulls back on Taima’s reins, and says, “Well, this is Dewberry Creek. It’s ah…rather open.” Arthur watches Charles scan the horizon, turns back to the mess of pebbles and dusty mud baking in the fading light of the day.

“Yeah. Camping here would…” The creek bed is dry, sure, but there has been no rain for the past week, and the next rainstorm would wash their tents out easily. And the banks would offer little protection from much of anything. Even if they camped along the treeline, they would need at least four guards at any given time to watch all sides. Call it paranoia, but Arthur hates the idea of settling somewhere without having something at their backs.

“Dutch said to check this spot specifically?” Charles sounds incredulous now, directing Taima down the bank to walk along the creek bed.

Rosie follows Taima’s lead and Arthur resettles his hat on his head. He heard none of Dutch’s words about this place back in the tent, too lost to hear anything, but he holds that vulnerability back. “He pointed it out on a map. Didn’t say why we’d pick this place.”

“Well, lets take a look around.” Charles sets Taima walking up the creek, and Arthur stares after him. Feels comfort in the strength of Charles’ voice, how calm he is about all of this. Arthur feels like his spine is close to breaking after today, after seeing that knife pressed to John’s throat, after so much else, but the steady line of Charles’ shoulders and the drift of wind playing with his hair makes the world weigh less.

Suppose those feelings still haven’t gone away. He remembers himself with a quick shake of his head and sets Rosie following.

The sight of a few vultures crouching over a body lying in the middle of the creek bed is not encouraging, and Arthur dismounts as Charles kneels over the corpse. The vultures scatter in a wash of dark feathers. “He’s been shot, and not all that long ago. We’ll need to be careful.” Charles searches the man’s pockets, and Arthur keeps his eyes on the horizon. No sign of anyone along the road, no free roaming horses, no wagon crashed into the embankment, no hint as to who this man is.

“He doesn't have any papers on him. No telling who he is. And there’s a camp up ahead.” Charles points toward the treeline, the wood of a wagon barely visible through the brush.

The light bleeding through the oak boughs is a warm orange, sunset just beginning. Arthur remembers the rush of packing up back at camp, feels panic shift in his guts, and hopes this will be a way out. “Might be a place for us to camp after all. Be ready to shoot. Ain’t got time for asking questions.”

“The hell are you on about?” Charles’ voice, flint striking obsidian, a spark of exasperation, no, more than that. It smacks Arthur in the shoulder, and he turns, feels his words writhing too warm in his lungs.

“We need to move camp fast. The Pinkertons will be on us soon, if they aren’t already. We don’t have time to-,” It hasn’t been that long since they left camp, sure, but who knows what might be going on now. Those nightmares that hound him at night echo in his ears. His hand drifts to his pistol, smooth wood against his shaking fingers, keeping an eye on the treeline and trying to ignore the fear that someone may be hiding in the trees and be all too ready to shoot them.

“Arthur.” Charles’ face, his voice, hold anger, a fraction of what he let out on that day with the bison hunt. Arthur hears it, remembers that day, so much broiling up with it, and shuts his mouth. “I’m not going to shoot just for the sake of it. And neither are you. Now come on.”

Arthur moves to follow Charles before the sound of his footsteps, squelching through the mud and muck of the banks, can drift too far. “Survival is the important thing here, Charles. We need to hurry before something bad happens. The others-,”

“That doesn’t mean we need to terrorize strangers. Now follow me. Watch your footing.” Arthur reels back at the warning trapped in Charles’ words.

His hands itch to do something, anything. They approach the camp and Arthur draws his pistol, feels a lick of shame for it, but he knows he cannot be too careful, cannot risk Charles, will not. Anything could be hiding in this mess of tents and wagons. Hell, he used to be afraid of a stray bullet catching him, but now he thinks he couldn’t care much less about himself, too busy worrying about his family, about Charles. That thought slithers away and he lets it, ignores it as best he can.

And it is quite a mess. Mud caked underneath their boots, trash scattered across the ground, overturned barrels and crates. Looks like whoever camped here left in a hurry. They pass a tent, Charles only giving it a cursory glance before moving on, and Arthur’s nerves twinge. “Be careful.” He calls after him, peeking into the tent and checking around the corners.

“I am.” The growl of the words should not surprise Arthur, but they do, and he swallows down a lump in his throat.

It doesn’t take them long to clear the camp, but by then Arthur feels a prickle at the back of his neck – someone is here, he can feel eyes on him. Charles is the one to make the discovery, peeling back layers of debris from around a wagon and earning a rifle in the face for his trouble.

Arthur reaches for his pistol, but hesitates when he sees it is a woman, a couple children, nothing that earns a gun in the face. He raises his hands, mirroring Charles.

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Charles holsters his shotgun, moving so slow, like he is trying to calm a spooked stallion. “Are you okay? We don’t mean you no harm.” He gestures for the family to get out from under the wagon, and Arthur tries to hide his surprise when they do. The woman keeps her eyes flitting between the two of them, blue jays hopping back and forth along telegram wires, and the children cower behind her as she stands and takes a few steps back.

The tension feels thick enough to cut, and Arthur tries, “He asked, are you okay?”

Her eyes jerk back to him, the rifle trembling off center in her hands. “Sprechen sie Deutsch? German?” The woman’s accent sounds familiar, close to Strauss’.

Arthur shakes his head, wishes he knew what to say, what to do now.

_“Run off anyone you find before the rest of us follow in.” _Dutch would insist the family leave. That’s what he said back in the tent. It makes guilt slosh in Arthur’s guts now, but that won’t matter in the long run. One more bad deed, easy enough to forget. It’s what he told Arthur to do for the sake of the gang, after all.

_Change._

Change, sure. All this change, and for what? He has tried, more than he ever has before, fought his nature and tried to be a better man. For what? Some dream of escaping this life with those he cares about? He should have known it would never work. Those lawmen in Valentine still came after them. The bullets still came too close, John nearly had his throat cut, nearly got shot, it’s nothing different than what it would have been before. Nothing has changed. If Arthur hadn’t bothered changing all of this would be just the same. They’re still on the run from Pinkertons, still criminals hounded by the law. His family still not safe, Dutch still turning into a man Arthur does not know, that damn fortune still drumming through his ears. The camp, the gang, they are all in danger again and saying a few kind words or helping a few folks out was never going to change that. In all this trying, he still hasn’t changed a damn thing.

It makes anger curl in his guts like a rattlesnake poised to strike. But when he looks to Charles, to kind eyes and outstretched hands, guilt rises from his stomach, bitter and burning and tasting of thick bile. He wants to spit it out. Vomit his worries into the mud. So, he does.

“Go on! We need the land, so go!” His words bite on the way out. “Get the hell out of here!” His voice rises, growls, and he can’t care, tries to ignore the fear in the boy’s eyes. Kid can’t be much older than Jack.

“Arthur.” Charles’s voice is all warning, his voice sharp and crackling. Lighting scars across a dark sky before the cracking boom of thunder.

“They took our father!” The girl yells it, stepping forward and then cowering back from Arthur’s shadow. Any other time and he would help them, he likes to think he would anyway, but right now his vision is tunneling and his head feels too full of air and claiming this land might be the only thing that saves his family. He has to believe that, has to cling to it, has to trust that they will be safe if he can just get this for them. His temper rushes up, a bull charging.

Charles tenses beside him, takes a step forward, in front of Arthur and towards the family, hands still raised up and pacifying. “Who took your father? Where?” His voice is deliberate and quiet as it ever is, but it is coiled back.

“Men. Last night.” The girl whimpers. Tear tracks mark her muddy cheeks.

“Can you show me where?” Charles crouches down to face her, voice gentler than he has any right to be. He crouches in the mud in front of them as the little girl points toward the trees, that rifle still aimed at him, too close, and Arthur feels a tendon in his jaw tick.

“This ain’t no business of ours, Charles.” The excuse is all he can come up with, but he will say anything to get Charles away from that gun, anything to get a safe place for his family.

Slow, steady, Charles turns to him and stands at his full height. The girl rushes behind her mother’s skirts again and cowers there.

Arthur feels anger and a desperate, sour taste of fear backing up in his belly, too hot and too heavy, cornered and trapped. That tension of needing to throw up but refusing to. “We don’t even speak their language. We don’t have time to-,”

Charles raises a fist, but he only points at Arthur, at the middle of his chest. The ink of his hair has leaked down over his shoulder to coat his shirt in reaching fingers. “You are not as tough and dense as all of that. I know you’re not. Now get your head out of your ass and follow me.” The words are coated in deliberate venom, a kind Arthur knows to shrink back from, and the smoldering coal of his eyes glare into Arthur enough to burn his insides. He sees the anger coiled there, the harsh, bloody tinge of it, and swallows whatever words he was about to be stupid enough to say.

When Charles whistles for Taima, sharp and clear, Rosie follows the mare as well. That familiarity, something that always makes Arthur smile, sets the nerves in his arms tingling now. The anger, maybe it is anger, or maybe it is a panic Arthur has spent too long tamping down to call it what it really is, rises up, and Arthur feels like a child again. No way out, no plan, no idea of how to fix this.

He sets his hands on his belt, grips his fingernails into the leather, and clenches his teeth. The family backs away from him in tiny steps, all of them watching him like he is a predator to fear, some snarling animal caught between the urge to bite or run.

“Arthur. Come on.” Charles calls out, already in Taima’s saddle, and it is his voice that makes Arthur follow after him, not the words. Under his anger, the bubbling pain of it, his nerves feel frayed like a reused noose. The longer they linger here, the longer their camp remains in limbo. The gang cannot protect themselves from a frontal assault at Horseshoe, from the armed militia of Pinkertons that Cornwall must be funding. And if the gang starts the trek south, toward the creek, they will have no chance of keeping everyone safe out on the road.

Rosie burrs at him when he climbs into her saddle, huffs when he pulls on her reins too hard in his agitation. He pats a hand at her neck to apologize, and he follows after Charles, a dark silhouette rising against the sunlight and red dust drifting through the trees.

* * *

Arthur follows after Charles as they trek through the underbrush and lush hills of Lemoyne. He keeps his head tucked down, eyes away from Charles and the thunderstorm brewing between them.

“What is going on with you?” Charles’ voice sounds so accusatory, such anger held back. Arthur has no answer for him. He could let some of this out, the fear pounding against the walls of his stomach. But something frenzied and clawing pulls away at that, a dog tied to a stake and foaming at the mouth. “You were going to just send that woman and her children on their way?”

“With Pinkertons breathing down our necks we have to get camp moved as soon as we can. We’re wasting time with this wild goose chase. It isn’t our problem.” His voice sounds too desperate, even to him.

“That is not the man I know.” A sting of ozone after a lightning strike

Suppose this isn’t the man Charles knows. The man Charles knows has a hard time saying much of anything, a lonely man who writes his feelings in a sketchbook and yet still turns to killing at the drop of a hat. A sad mess who gets caught staring at the person he can never have. And no matter how hard he tries, can’t seem to change much of anything. Arthur feels his words squirming behind his ribs, kicking at him. What comes out is, “Then I guess you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

Those words, stupid, awful, why, earn him a glare, a flash of hurt through Charles’ eyes that Arthur wishes he did not have to see. “What I know, is this isn’t the man I’ve gotten to know the past few months. You are not this cruel, this callous. You are good. I’ve seen that. Don’t understand why you’re…”

_You are good._ The words, Charles’ voice, echoes in Arthur’s head and he doesn’t know what to do with them. Charles spurs Taima on, and Arthur can only follow.

They pause in the brush near a road, and Arthur huffs under his breath but Rosie stops with Taima anyway. The trail of hoofprints is still obvious in the mud, no reason to stop, why-

“Hold on. Got a group of riders coming past.” Charles hunkers down in his saddle, shoulders tense, and Arthur peeks out to try and see what the fuss is about. But it is just a group of four men on horseback. They don’t look like a gang, at least not from this vantage point, and Arthur figures he has enough experience dealing with those types to recognize them. This far from the road the men cannot see them hiding in the trees, and he knows he and Charles could take them if it came to that. No reason to stop as far as he can tell. “Never thought a man like Dutch would even consider moving south.” Charles says with a frown. The words are to himself, and Arthur does not want to risk more acid between them, but he asks,

“What’s the problem?”

Charles turns a glare on him again, but the look has lost its heat, just looks tired now. “I’d just rather not take my chances this far over the border. No telling how those men will react to seeing me.”

The horses pass them on the road as Arthur’s mind whirls. No reason for him to think of such a thing, of course not. Why would his mind need to think such a thing? But for a man like Charles, of course he has to consider so many awful ways this could go wrong. And now, they are moving camp into a place that will be nothing but a danger to him, to Lenny, Tilly. Arthur’s kidneys ache like someone kicked him in the side. “We’ve never been this far south. Doubt it was Dutch’s first pick.” Not enough. Could never be enough.

Charles does not reply, and now Arthur can see the tension in the man’s shoulders, the anxious skitter of his hands along Taima’s shoulders. Stress that Arthur has never seen in him, not because he tries to hide it but because it is a rare thing to see Charles so rattled.

Once the way is clear, Charles leads them across the road and down a gully leading toward the lake shore. Their horses move slowly in stepping through the rocks and hints of mud along the trail. Flat Iron lake laps toward them on the sandy shore, and Charles peers down at the ground to check they are following the correct trail. The air is warmer, thicker than Arthur is used to, and the sun is slowly sinking toward the western horizon. Heavy orange light sitting in the wisps of clouds overhead.

With the lake enormous and cool in front of them, stands of trees on either side, orange light pouring across everything he can see, Arthur takes a moment to drag a hand down his face. His curdling stomach, his trembling hands, are no excuse to treat Charles like this. The man was just trying to help, just as he always does. Always there when Arthur needs him, a hand reaching out before Arthur can even think to ask, never asking for anything in return.

_“Arthur. I’m with you.”_ A declaration now weeks old still rings so true in Arthur’s skull. Even when he is out on his own it still brings him comfort, still soothes his nerves, knowing that Charles has his back, even miles and miles away. _“You are good. I’ve seen that.”_ Even after Arthur’s bullheaded outburst, even after spilling over with more animosity than he has in a long time. Not sure how a man like him got to be so lucky as to have a man like Charles as a friend. So steady, and still within reach even with his own stress and worries to deal with.

Moving south, where his life will be in danger every day, more than it already is in this life. Hearing the gang might break soon, this home he has only just started to carve out with them, gone just as quick as it came. Moving camp and trying to protect everyone. Doing his best to be helpful and kind and steering Arthur away from whatever dumb notion got into his head. Charles is,

Arthur bows his head and breathes; tries to focus on what he needs to do. Tries to kick Dutch’s voice out of his mind, that “_We are just trying to survive. We don’t have a choice.” _There is a choice. A choice Arthur can make right now. _Your whole life, son, you have followed the wrong star._ Find a safe place to camp and get everyone moved. Find a safe place to camp. That is all this needs to be. His anger, that _fear_, is not what he needs right now. All he has done with it is turn it on Charles, a man so good he deserves none of it. Arthur feels the reasoning for his anger, the excuses, peel away as easy as birch bark.

He feels like an ass.

“Charles.” Arthur says to draw the man’s attention, though he does not earn it right away. Which is more than fair. Charles takes a few more moments to check the tracks embedded in the mud before glancing over. When he does, Arthur takes care to look him in the eye, stares into dark brown eyes melted warm by the sunset. “I’m sorry. I was out of line back there. Took all of this out on you. And on that family. I…All I got is excuses. You were just helping, and I was being an ass. So. I’m sorry.”

Charles holds his stare for a long, long moment. So long, and Arthur is helpless to look anywhere else, away from such heavy eyes and a frown dissolving into a grim line. He nods. “You were being an ass. Now come on. Sooner we find him the faster we can get this done.” His tone is not so tight as it was before, something smooth and relieved in it.

Arthur hurries Rosie along to follow, and when he rides beside Charles the air is calmer between them. He keeps his eyes on the trail, but after a minute, pauses to check grass beside the dirt path, pulling them further along the lake shore.

“You worried about John?” Charles asks as they trot along the edge of the sand. The question is an olive branch Arthur feels stupidly desperate to grab ahold of.

“Yeah of course I’m worr-, well, wait, is there a specific reason for me to be worried about John? Idiot like him is easy to worry about no matter what day it is.” Arthur revels in the chuff of air Charles lets out, not angry anymore, almost amused.

“He was talking about going back into Valentine for some money. Said something about an auction.”

“That damn idiot.” Arthur curses under his breath, heaves a heavy breath. Looks up to the tree canopy and the tinge of orange breaking through. “Well, now, yes, I am worried about him. We already cut it too close in Valentine. It…Going back there, the same day, that’s insane.” No telling how many of Cornwall’s men are still hanging around the town, not to mention the town Sheriff and his deputies. John’s ugly mug is not the most famous of their wanted posters, but he has a comparable bounty to be sure. If he gets caught… “Ah, I’ll be long dead and gone before I stop worrying about that idiot.”

“Figured that was why you were…” Charles trails off and Arthur is a strange sort of glad for it. That clawing fear, the angry sting of it, is best left alone. Blood washing away from his skin in the fast current of a stream.

“No, I ah…Keeping the gang safe, making sure they have a place to sleep, that’s the part I’ve been worrying about. Shouldn’t have taken that out on anyone, least of all you.” Arthur feels like he swallows his own tongue, feels awful and flustered all at once.

“It’s good of you to take care of them like this. Used to think you weren’t like that.” Charles, ever the honest man.

“No, I used to be the biggest bastard you ever met. Before...well that ain't the important part. Hell, that’s how I acted today. So, guess I still am one.”

“Eh, you’re not so bad.”

* * *

“Bitte! Schneiden sie die seile!”

“Yeah, yeah, we heard you the first time.” Arthur grumbles as he leans down to finish untying the man they trekked all this way to save. Through the entire gunfight he was rolling on the ground and shouting gibberish at them, unhelpful as can be. Charles walks over to stand guard behind them, rifle at the ready, eyes scanning the treeline.

Arthur has a chance to look back at Charles, at the warmth of his dark skin and the strength of his arms, _can't want that_, before he tucks his head back down and focuses on cutting the ropes around the captive’s wrists and ankles. He keeps talking, Arthur assumes in German, and keeps on talking even when Arthur waves a hand for him to stop.

“You know, this is a hell of a better campsite than that creek. Much easier to defend.” Charles says over the gibberish, and Arthur considers the clearing. Far off from the road, some tree cover but enough space for the horses. Further over the border than he wants, but,

“Yeah. You’re right. Hell of a lot better.” Arthur says, standing at Charles’ shoulder and leaving the German to sit on the ground and rub at his wrists for a while. The man has a long mustache, once curled at the edges but now smeared with mud. His clothes look as though they were fine at one time, but with the mess of the day on him he looks like hell.

“Still angry I dragged us into this?” Charles asks with a sidelong glance, holding Arthur’s eye in a way that he wants to match. So sure, and so strong.

“Nah. Was never angry at you.” Arthur doubts he ever could be. A flame, small as a lit match, hovers in his chest. “Glad you set me straight. Thank you for that.” He turns his eyes away and to the clearing again, to the grass glowing green and orange in the fading sunlight, away from the strong profile of Charles’ face, so easy to get lost in.

The German babbles something behind them, sounding desperate, and Arthur rolls his eyes. “You alright heading back to meet up with the caravan? Lead them here instead?”

Charles looks over to him, nods. Steady and patient. “I’ll be fine. This will make a much better camp than that creek.”

“Yeah. Gonna have to ask who the hell volunteered that one. At least here we’ll have the lake at our back. I’ll take this fella back to his family, then come back here and start moving the bodies. Be careful.” Arthur tacks it on at the end, fights an urge to regret it. Such a soft pair of words.

But Charles smiles, that small one, the one Arthur still thinks about sometimes, the one he still likes to think, likes to stupidly hope, is just for him. “I will. You be careful yourself.”

* * *

On the ride back to the new campsite, Arthur nearly vomits.

_The German is rambling, pushing his family to board the wagon while still reaching under the seat for something. He won't stop talking, and Arthur tried to tell him but the man just refused to listen. "Sir, I barely speak English. I don't understand a lick of what you're-,"_

_There is a gold bar in the man's hands, and he is pushing it toward Arthur, still babbling, still talking._

_“Danke. Danke schoen. Thank you.” The man hands over the bar, bowing with the gesture, and Arthur feels a helpless need to take it. He holds it, feels the smooth metal against his fingers, and his ribs constrict against his lungs. The family call thanks to him, long after their wagon has started rolling away. He watches them disappear over a ridge, paralyzed where he stands._

He hangs his head forward over Rosie’s shoulders, focuses on the muscles moving under her red coat as she gallops. The gold bar sits heavy, a massive overbearing weight, in his satchel. Just like that one back in Limpany, just like the ones he found in an abandoned train car up in Granite Pass, or the bag of gold nuggets he found sitting in the mud of the stream running into Owanjima lake. He hid them all away and never told a soul. So much weight and so much hope and so much guilt.

* * *

Arthur’s shoulders ache by the time the wagons show up. He sorted through the barrels and crates leftover from the bandits campsite and piled their bodies off to one side in the brush. There is nearly fifteen of them, and he knows Dutch will have someone burn them once the camp is settled; too many to bother with burial.

It is messy, bloody, awful work, and in the heat of the south it manages to be even worse. In hefting sacks of grain and dragging corpses, he thinks. Thinks back to the tent at Horseshoe and how Dutch was talking to him. Calling him ‘son’ felt so familiar, though he supposes Dutch uses that when he needs to. Remind Arthur of who he is, who Dutch is, what they have between them after so many years. He feels something at that, calmer than resentment, maybe.

Thinks it is strange that Dutch insisted he take Charles along. One of the others, someone less settled, would have been better choices for _“Run off anyone you find before the rest of us follow in.”_ Charles is good in a fight, capable, sure, but not as violent as the others. Not in that needless way Micah has sometimes, or the way Bill can pick a fight with just about anyone over nothing at all.

Except when it came to those bison, the poachers. That set Charles off in a bad way. Brought so much to the surface that Arthur had never seen before, that Charles never let up to breathe before. Would Dutch have ever seen Charles that way? Even a fraction of it? Is that what Dutch expected? The anger born of agony? The grim line of Charles’ mouth turning into a snarl? Was Dutch hoping, assuming, Charles would turn that potential violence on whoever they found? Was he hoping Arthur would do the same? That violent, angry dog snarling on the end of a leash? Hell, he nearly did if not for Charles knocking some sense into him.

Arthur’s stomach sinks. These thoughts are a few jumps, assumptions, but it doesn’t feel right to just toss them aside and assume all is fine; he assumed all was fine in this family for too damn long before _change _and _the devil_.

Wagons crash through the trees and he turns to face the first of them, expects Hosea or Miss Grimshaw, but it is Dutch, holding the reins and grinning with Charles beside him on the seat. “You were right. This place will be perfect for us. Hello, Arthur!” He passes the reins to Charles and leaps down from the wagon seat.

Arthur waves to Charles, a small motion, but he feels his worries lighten when Charles returns the gesture, nods to him. Arthur had feared he fucked that up, that easy trust between them, and he probably still mucked it up pretty bad, but at least he can work at fixing it. Try to be better and make up for it.

“Miss Grimshaw, Mr. Pearson! Put everyone to work. Make this place a home.” Dutch stands to the side of the wagon train, hands on his hips, watching as the gang file in one by one.

Arthur stands with him, tries to remember how to do this, what it was like back before Dutch stopped trusting him. He looks down to the short daisies growing in clumps near their boots. “It ain’t much, and it’s a little further south than I’d like, but it’ll do.”

Dutch hums, taking a cigar from his pocket and lighting the end. They watch the wagon train move through, Dutch calling to a few folks, Arthur keeping a tally to check that everyone is still with them.

Riding beside one of the wagons is Micah, and he pulls on his horse’s reins to stop beside them. He steps down from his horse’s saddle and wanders over. Crossing his arms over his chest, glaring in Arthur’s direction from under that stupid white hat of his. Too big for his head. The brim flopping down under its own weight. Then again, that in itself is rather fitting. “Good of you to find us a new place to stay, Arthur. I still think my suggestion would’ve been a better choice.”

So, it was Micah to suggest Dewberry creek, Arthur thinks, willing his expression to remain unfazed. Interesting that he would be the one to insist on a location without any natural defenses. A campsite open at all sides without a hope of fending off an attack. Some animal instinct in the base of Arthur’s skull hisses.

“Enough of that, Micah. I already told you I trusted Arthur to make the right decision.” Dutch says with a curl of smoke into the heavy air. Such confidence, such faith, it unsettles Arthur’s stomach, makes his nose curl up.

“Nah, it was all Charles.” Arthur says, fighting the urge to mumble it into his shirt collar; Charles deserves better than that, deserves the recognition for this. Would have never found this place without him.

Dutch looks to him, a rise in his brow, “Well of course, Arthur. Without you and Charles we would be sleeping on the side of the road. I’m sure the creek bed would have been a fine spot but, for now, we’ll stay here and try our hand.” Dutch’s assurances, his faith, is strange. Sounds warm and welcome in Arthur’s ear, but now he knows the feeling of being burned by that voice. Knows the singe of it.

Arthur walks away, starts toward the cluster of wagons now parked in the red mud of the clearing. He will start helping the others unpack their camp and try to get things going before the ghost of sunlight over the lake horizon fully fades. This will have to be their home, for a little while longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: Bits and pieces of this were written well over a year ago. Seeing this mission for the first time in my first playthrough, I just couldn't help myself.
> 
> Stay healthy and safe everyone!


	22. Mail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2: Clemens Point

They sleep in the wagons and on the ground that night, everyone too tired to bother with setting up camp. After a cold, bright morning wake-up, and seeing that the red clay earth stains everything it touches, they set to work. Some of the men help string up tents, others ride off into town to get a lay of the land. Arthur spends the day hauling crates around, unpacking the wagons while Susan follows behind him and makes a count of their remaining supplies, setting up Hosea’s tent when the old man is busy helping one of the others. The unsettled air of just moving camp still hangs over them, but they are somewhere, on stable ground with guards posted in the trees, and that is the part that counts.

Some semblance of calm washes over them all that night. Faded blues and darkening purples coat the surface of Flat Iron lake as the sun finishes setting. Moonlight just begins to peek over the horizon by the time Arthur lets himself wind down. His shoulders ache, and he feels about ready to pass out cold, but the camp looks as put together as it ever does, like nothing went wrong yesterday, as if this clearing has been their home for a few months already.

Pearson comes up to him, pushing a bowl of stew at him. “Mr. Morgan, I saw you working through supper, so I set some aside for you. Better eat your dinner before it gets any colder.”

Slow roasted rabbit with chunks of carrot, onions cooked long past translucent, sprigs of thyme leaves that will, inevitably, stick between his teeth. When Arthur takes the tin bowl, it is not hot by any means, but it isn’t as cold as he expects. “Thank you, Mr. Pearson. Sorry to be a trouble.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it. Now, go sit down and eat up.” Pearson walks back to the chuckwagon, and Arthur feels thankful for the man’s kindness; in years past he never would have offered such a thing. Always yelled about folks eating while the food was hot or risk going hungry.

Arthur moves toward the game table set up a ways off, but he hears Sean’s voice, “Eh! Arthur! Come sit with us a while!” and he feels helpless but to go and sit down at the fire with them.

_You will fight for them or they will die._

“There he is! Old Arthur Morgan. Been working yourself into the ground, old timer.”

“Ah, shut up, Sean.” Arthur grumbles but makes sure to smile with the words, makes sure Sean glances up and sees the lack of animosity. The campfire is small compared to what they had at Horseshoe, and Arthur realizes why when his face starts to sweat after he sits down; living down in the south is shaping up to be worse than he first thought.

He bows his head and eats his supper, basks in the warmth of so many people. Sean and Lenny bickering, Tilly’s bright smile, the comfort of Uncle coughing in such a dramatic fashion that it cannot be anything but faked for the sake of attention. Charles sitting across the flames and staring into the flickering with dark eyes.

Arthur coughs on a bit of stew that gets trapped in his throat, and he smacks a fist against his sternum to hide how his eyes strayed. Hopes and prays no one noticed. Such a vulnerability around so many people with eyes like hawks.

Javier has been playing a few chords on his guitar for the past hour or so, though he never forms a full song with them, lazy notes drifting through camp as another long day winds down. After a while longer, he sets his guitar up against the oak tree behind him, flexing his hands to stretch the tendons.

“Sorry, folks. Have to protect these beauties, eh?” Javier smirks, waggles his fingers, and Karen snorts a laugh.

“I’d go grab my banjo and pick up where you left off, Javier, if _somebody_ would stop hiding it places.” Uncle glares around the circle, and after only a few moments, Sean and Lenny both start laughing. The others titter at the old man’s expense, but Uncle’s face is red and rosy with a genuine smile.

Arthur finishes his supper and sets the bowl on the ground, tries to will his eyes to stay open as Susan admonishes Lenny and Sean both. Pair of troublemakers they are.

“I’ve got something.” Charles pipes up. His deep voice is quiet, but it silences everyone; the man rarely volunteers much of anything around the campfire. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a harmonica. Shining silver and gleaming in the firelight. He brings it up to his lips to play a test note, and Arthur forces his eyes away. Away, down, over, anywhere that is not Charles’ face. Away from full lips. Well that sure is something he hasn’t thought about for a while. Not surprising, just-

“Didn’t know you played, Charles.” Tilly pipes up.

Susan leans back in her seat, “Can you play ‘Buffalo Gals’?” Her voice is quiet, gentle, and maybe not fully there with them in this clearing. Somewhere else in a memory.

Charles looks up to her with an arched brow of recognition, plays a few more notes, and starts in on a song.

Arthur does not know the song, but Susan sure does. She sits up in her little folding chair and starts snapping her fingers to the beat, “Buffalo gals can’t you come out tonight, can’t you come out tonight, can’t you come out tonight?” Her singing still sounds lovely even after all these years. If Arthur lets his eyelids drift closed, he can imagine it is years and years ago, when this gang was just a handful of people sitting around a lone campfire.

The others tap out the beat with her, the men picking up the verse alright, while Tilly and Karen sing along word for word. “I asked her would she have a dance, have a dance, have a dance, I thought I might get a chance to shake a foot with her!” The women all raise their feet and tap out the beat in the firelit air. Laughter drifts up like embers in the heat of the campfire. Winking out against the dark of the sky.

Arthur fights the tiredness tugging at his eyes, wants to stay up through the night and revel in the company of these people. They are safe, for now – that raging, clawing fear he felt in trying to find this place feels so far away now – and it feels so important to sit here and be around them. While he still can, he supposes. A morbid thought he wonders if he will ever stop having.

Charles seems fully preoccupied with playing, his hands racing over the harmonica to keep up with Susan’s voice, and it feels safe to watch him, to stare and not worry so much. Big hands and fire coated skin. Dark hair absorbing the fire light to stay as shadowed as a raven feather. A hint of a smile in eyes that always look so weighed down. Shouldn't think about him that way.

Everything feels warm and harmless here, secure, and Arthur sits with them as long as he can stay awake, sits with his family and smiles.

* * *

He wakes up feeling cold. Feels brisk, misty air touch his skin. He sits up, tries to remember where he is, why it feels so cold, and he hears a voice coming from the nearby trees.

“Arthur!” It calls, echoing, sounds like Dutch’s voice, maybe, too far off to make out. Arthur scrambles out of his bedroll, tugs on his boots and starts walking toward the treeline. No one around, dark, the hours between night and early morning, gray, not sure where he is. The forest is dark and thick with fog, cloudy and quiet with it.

“Arthur!” There it is again, that voice, unmistakably Dutch, and he sounds worried. Afraid? Arthur pushes through the treeline, the brush and the bracken, ignoring the pull of thorns against his sleeves. It is slow going, no game trails, no breaks in the brush, nothing but more and more trees. Heavy pine trees, branches drooping with whispers. Strange for pine trees to be this close together, for their needles to reach so close they sting his cheeks.

“Change.” He knows that voice, fears it more than he thought he could fear anything, and he spins around to confront that old man again. Old Man Cassidy will be standing there, he knows it, with his toothless smile and his shaking coffee can.

_I can see it. Your future. You’re going to die._

But he is not there. No man stands behind him, just more trees, more fog, and more darkness than he can handle. His heart races, feeling so scared he does not know where to go, what is happening. “Change.” That rasping voices sounds again from above, and Arthur stares up into the gleaming yellow eyes of an owl. It stares at him, ruffles its feathers in the chill.

“Change.” It coos in Hosea's voice now. A voice that brings a different sort of fear to Arthur’s stomach. A stone sinks in his guts, and he feels helpless, feels cold air wrap around him. The trees are holding on too tight. His body locks up and he feels paralyzed, he cannot move, cannot break away from staring at this owl.

“Arthur!” Dutch’s voice calls from the trees, somehow more distant, a desperate plea, and Arthur wants to move, wants to run further into the forest and find him, but he can’t. Cannot look away from those glowing yellow eyes, the unflinching stare.

“Change.” Hosea’s voice creaks its way out of the owl’s beak and the sound aches worse than a broken bone. What little light there was is fading, the sky darkening, the pine trees curling closer, and Arthur opens his mouth to yell, to call for Dutch, to cry with the terror seizing his chest.

* * *

Arthur wakes up with a heave of air soaking into his lungs, heavy with lake silt and the clack of waves washing over pebbles. His hands ache, fists clenched so tight the nails dig into his palms. He stares up at the awning of his lean-to, listens to the distant murmur of life moving around him in camp, begs his heartbeat to slow, so thankful it was a dream, so afraid of what his mind just put him through.

_Change._

He wishes he knew how. Wishes he knew what the right answer was, what the right words are to make Dutch stop going down this strange path he seems hellbent on barreling down. Wishes he knew what that nightmare meant.

The hum of the morning settles over him as he gets up and gets dressed for the day, taking the time to shave his scruff all the while keeping his eyes out of the little mirrors reflection. Does all he can to ignore the wisps of his dream still hanging around, still whispering to him. Hosea's voice is clear and real on the other side of camp, admonishing Sean for something. And Dutch is sitting in his tent writing something down in the camp ledger. Both of them, there, real, alive. And there are others around, always people around in camp, never really alone, Tilly hanging up laundry to dry, John saddling up Old boy close to the tree line, Charles fletching arrows in his lean-to. Arthur reminds himself to keep his eyes moving, away from Charles, still feels the prickle of thorns against his fingers when he thinks of their journey here. He wants to forget the dream, but he knows how foolish that is now, how deep the hooks of some words can go. _Change. Ash blood bone._ He is still scrubbing sleep from his eyes when he approaches the chuckwagon, grabs one of the made-up plates on the table, eggs, crisped salt pork, one of the tough biscuits Pearson somehow manages to make out of flour and hope, and,

“-I’m going to kill somebody.” Mrs. Adler’s voice, new, rasping, so very angry.

“And if you don’t stop hissing at me-,” Pearson’s voice answers, and Arthur manages to gather his wits to look up and see the two pointing knives at each other.

He rushes forward, moving between them like the fool he is. “Whoa, whoa, easy now.” His words are a bit louder than he intends, biscuit still in hand, but he needs to get both of them looking at him rather than each other; Arthur knows how fast Pearson can butcher a deer with that cleaver of his, and there is no telling what Mrs. Adler is capable of. No telling at all. “No need to fight, especially not this early.”

Mrs. Adler stares through him, brown eyes flinty enough to strike a flame.

Pearson sighs behind Arthur's shoulder, “It’s fine, Arthur. Mrs. Adler has just been finding it a little difficult to settle into camp. Seems to think she can refuse to work if it doesn’t suit her delicate sensibilities-,”

Mrs. Adler rushes forward like a mad bull. A roar tears out of her throat. Most likely intending to leap at Pearson, knife in her hand entirely forgotten, but her weight hits Arthur’s shoulder and he staggers, tries to absorb the shock of it and keep ahold of her shoulder without shoving her away from him. Tries to keep his plate of breakfast a safe arm’s length away too. “Enough of that! We don’t need no fighting in camp right now.” Arthur hears his voice, the volume of it, and holds back a flinch, worries he will see Mrs. Adler flinch back from him.

But she doesn’t. She takes a half step back from him and squares her shoulders, knife still in hand, stares into his eyes without a fraction of hesitation or fear. “I ain’t lazy or delicate, Mr. Morgan. I will work, but not this. Not chopping vegetables and mending clothes. I’d rather ride out like you all do. My husband and I…” She trails off a moment, holding back a tide of sorrow Arthur can see brimming behind her eyes, depths of sadness he cannot fathom, “We shared the work. All of it. I was in the fields, I can hunt, I can use a knife or a gun.” Her words are a harsh rasp filtered through gritted teeth, “But I am telling you right here and now – if you keep me in this camp chopping onions for much longer, I’ll skin this fat old coot and serve _him_ for dinner!” She shouts it past his shoulder at Pearson.

Arthur turns around because he knows Pearson is about to fire back like he always seems to need to. Gets himself in trouble that way more often than not. “Watch your damn mouth-,”

“Pearson, enough. Both of you. Enough.” Arthur lets his voice burn in his chest, lets it echo deeper than he usually allows. Hates scaring people with how big and loud he can be when there ain’t no need for it. But he does not want a fight in camp, does not want either of them hurt, does not want to deal with the mess of Mrs. Adler inevitably following through on her threat.

Pearson straightens up at the tone and his balance shifts back and away. An unsettled look half-hidden by his mustache.

Turning to Mrs. Adler, Arthur sees her posture relax, but only by a fraction, and he wonders at that kind of strength. “Now, Mrs. Adler, if you would like to ride out with us men, you are more than welcome to. But it ain’t just hunting and shooting – we are the hunted ones. We all have bounties. Those that hunt us are going to shoot first and ask questions later.” Arthur thinks back to that riverbank, how those Pinkerton badges gleamed in the sunlight while they threatened little Jack. If they are willing to threaten a child, shooting at a woman is easily in their wheelhouse. Mrs. Adler is already in a bad enough spot having to throw her lot in with them. Don’t need some bounty hunter shooting her just because she rides along on a job.

“I ain’t afraid of dying.”

Dust and gravel and blood. Dreams turned to ash. Her words shiver down Arthur’s spine and makes his ribs tingle like they are trying to get out. Tear through the meat of him and run away. He does not know what to do with those words, that voice, “Then I suppose we could go for a ride out today.” He winces. Never been very eloquent with words, as Dutch likes to say. “Mr. Pearson, any supplies that need fetching?

“Oh, ah, yeah, sure. Go eat and I’ll have a list for you by then. And a few letters some folks wanted posted. Thank you, Arthur.” Pearson nods to him, edging back behind his butchering table.

Arthur nods and goes to sit on one of the logs around the campfire to try and eat his breakfast, to try and calm his heartbeat down. He hates when people fight in camp, even though he knows it is something inevitable with how many different sorts of folks they have collected over the years. Knives getting pulled isn’t even all that odd, not with Javier around.

Mrs. Adler follows after him and sits at the fire too, a few seats away with her arms crossed. She says nothing to him, and he would love to reciprocate such a kindness, but he has to ask, and coughs to broach the silence ahead of his words, “You got a pistol of your own?”

“I do.” She huffs under her breath and says nothing more. Arthur ducks his head back down, chokes down what feels like the driest biscuit Pearson has ever managed to cook up.

Since she joined them, back in all of that snow and ice up north, Mrs. Adler has been a quiet woman, as far as Arthur could tell. He understands why; it would take a truly blind man to not see the sorrow draped around her, iris petals so dark they become like dripping ink. No hints of this fire, this burn of anger so close to the surface. The scent of burnt life tinging the air. Now that he sees it, hears it, he feels guilt swirl in his guts for not thinking her capable of such a thing. Thought of her as a widow tough enough to survive that night the way she did, thought her strong, but not this rough grit, the embers spreading through dry grass to start a brush fire. He did not expect it, did not see it, before.

In the stillness of morning in camp, the southern air so thick and heavy Arthur feels as if he can hardly breathe, Kieran passes by the campfire with a saddle over his shoulder. Arthur calls out to him, “Duffy, you mind getting the spare wagon ready? Need to make a run into town.”

Kieran freezes like a startled deer, staring to Arthur, then to Mrs. Adler, before bumbling through some quick words, “R-right away, Mr. Morgan,” and rushes off to do as he’s asked.

Mrs. Adler watches him, scowling in the early sunshine until Duffy walks off far enough. “Hate that y’all let an O’Driscoll roam around camp like that.” Her voice is a sound Arthur wonders if he will ever grow used to. The rasp of it, the tired anger, the sad, sad exhaustion of it. The edge of a knife so sharp it will get away from you and cut. Tries to think of a time he has ever heard different from her since she came to stay with them, and his mind draws a blank.

“Kieran ain’t so bad. He’s skittish, but he ain’t bad.” His words feel right, but he puts less thought into them than he thought he would have to. It is getting easier to admit things like that to himself. Since that damn fortune, since he started to be a bit more honest with himself, he can admit he has never gotten a bad feeling about Kieran. Good with the horses, polite to the women, never a problem for them when he so easily could be.

“He’s an O’Driscoll.”

“Ah, maybe for a time, but I don’t rightly think he was with them for all that long. Too skittish to last with someone like Colm.” His words fall like water on clay, stagnant and still.

When he heads back to Pearson, exchanging his dirty dish for a list and a few letters, Arthur wonders what exactly he thinks he’s doing. Maybe some space will do Mrs. Adler some good, but in the long run, he’s not sure how to help her, or if he even can. Wonders if she is meant to be a part of those words, _save them so they may save you_. Then again, just like every other time he thinks back on that dusty day, he wonders why he puts so much stock in those words to begin with.

The spare wagon sits in the tall grass close to the trail out of camp, and Mrs. Adler follows him to it. Kieran stands with the draft horses hitched at the front, nods to Arthur, before catching sight of Mrs. Adler and scurrying off.

“So, I’ve graduated to shopping now, huh?” Mrs. Adler says as she hikes up into the wagon seat.

“Yeah, well, I’m right here with you, so don’t sound too excited.” Arthur taps the reins against the horses and the wagon starts rolling. He waits until they enter the shelter of the trees, until they pass Javier standing watch to ask, “Was it the heat that got to you? Something set you off?”

Mrs. Adler keeps her eyes trained ahead of them. One of her hands curls into a fist. “I just…I’m tired of him acting like I’m dead weight. I know I ain’t been much the past little while, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to take orders from that sweaty halfwit who…” She uncurls that fist and waves her hand past her nose, “Enough of that. Don’t want to talk about it. That man has been on my nerves since I got here.”

Arthur hides half a smile against his shoulder. The draft horses pull them along the muddy track leading through the poplar saplings and horsetail clumps that make up the trail into camp.

“Where are those letters?” Mrs. Adler asks.

“What, you want to read his mail?” Arthur taps the reins, tries to keep his voice neutral, like he does not want to do that exact thing. Ever since he showed up, Pearson has gotten on Arthur’s nerves every now and then too. Wouldn’t mind having some dirt on the old fool.

“That’s a lot of judgement coming from an outlaw. Letter-reading is your line, Mr. Morgan? Thought it would take a bit more than that.” Her voice is a touch smug, and Arthur rolls his eyes. He reaches into his satchel and passes the bundle of papers over.

“Just don’t go reading the others’…Don’t need to be hearing about everyone else’s lives.” The papers shuffle more than they need to, and when he finally glances over, Mrs. Adler is far into rifling through the envelopes. "What're you-,"

“Well, there ain’t much to read anyway. Karen’s letter is to check on her sister out on the coast. That’s sweet. Strauss is sending some money off to his aunt in New York. Very nice. And Miss Tilly-,”

“Thought you wanted to read Pearson’s. Now stop that. Don’t need to go digging through folks’ things.” Curiosity is nipping at his heels, but Arthur would hate for someone to read any letters he might send out. Not that he has anyone to send letters to no more. A pang around his heart like vines tightening.

“You’re a strange man, Mr. Morgan…Ah, here it is. _Dear Aunt Cathy_,” Mrs. Adler throws her voice to imitate Pearson, a poor imitation at that, and Arthur cannot help the laughter he lets out. “_I haven’t heard from you in some time, so I prayed to the Lord above_…_that your health has not deteriorated further._ Oh, well, that’s boring.” The wagon turns onto the main road leading toward Rhodes, and Arthur chances a peek at Mrs. Adler’s face, surprised at the giddiness there. “Oh, this will be good. Listen. _Since we last corresponded, I have traveled widely, making no small name for myself._” They share a chuckle, and she goes on, “_Before you ask, I am still yet to take a wife, but I can assure you it’s not for a lack of suitors_.” Laughter, full and easy, comes from both of them, and Arthur tries to hide his surprise at the sound; in all these weeks of her staying in camp and he has never heard Mrs. Adler laugh, not once. Now though, it sounds like the crackle of wind moving through dried wheat fields.

“Has he ever even talked to a woman he ain’t paid for?” The draft horses pull them uphill, and Arthur spies a cluster of buildings up ahead.

Arthur laughs wryly into the bandana around his neck, “Last I saw him talking to a ‘lady’, it was in a saloon out west and she just about punched him by the end.” Mrs. Adler laughs again in a quick squawk, “You see, Mrs. Adler, all men are hiding behind something. Pearson just happens to think rather highly of himself.”

“Well that’s for sure. But, why is it addressed to ‘return to Tacitus Kilgore’?” She, thankfully, folds the letter back into its envelope and tucks it back into the stack of them.

“Dutch’s idea. All mail addressed to the same alias.” Arthur shrugs, urging the horses on into town, following a mess of wheel tracks lining the red dirt. The town looks alright, not near as bustling as Valentine, but not too close to some of the shanty towns the gang has been forced to rely on in years past. He spies a gunsmith down the way, a sheriff’s office, the gleam of a bank sign he tries hard to ignore, and though there are a lot of people milling around seeming without much to do, it’s nice to know that Rhodes can be a stable enough place for them. Though with how small it is, they should probably avoid pulling jobs within the town. He steers the horses toward a general store at the edge of town, pulling up beside a wall with chipped paint.

“So, what’s the plan? You distract the shopkeeper and I start shooting?” A glint from her side of the wagon has Arthur glancing over in a quick, practiced movement, and the sight of a gleaming pistol in Mrs. Adler’s hands should not surprise him nearly as much as it does.

He darts a hand out and pushes the gun away, aiming it into the wagon seat and keeping it out of view of anyone around, “No! Are you insane?”

“I thought we were outlaws.” Mrs. Adler’s voice holds a hint of the laughter from before, and Arthur’s lungs squeeze.

“We are outlaws, not idiots. Small town like this, people are just trying to get by. Ain’t no need to shoot anyone.” His voice goes gruff again and he pushes that down, stares into Mrs. Adler’s eyes until he sees her give in to his reasoning.

“Alright fine.” She tucks the pistol away somewhere in the folds of her skirts.

“Now you go in there and buy us some food while I check the mail.”

“Oh, well ain’t that just exciting.” Mrs. Adler grumbles, but she takes the list from him and walks inside the shop.

Arthur huffs under his breath and hops down from the wagon seat, readjusts his belt as he walks across what he can only assume is the center of town. Far from bustling. An old statue and some benches playing host to passed out drunks. He feels eyes on him, and he remembers just why he hates towns this small; folks around here probably have nothing better to do than keep track of others’ business.

The post office is tucked inside the train station, and even that isn’t a very big building. He checks with the clerk about any mail for ‘Kilgore’, and after more searching than seems necessary, gets a letter that he tucks into his satchel. No telling who it is for until he opens it, so best to leave it until he gets back to camp and can hand the post off to Hosea.

Lazy sunlight soaks through the dirty window panes overlooking the trail tracks, and Arthur gets a spark of an idea so stupid he hates himself for it. “Excuse me, mister, there ain’t a stable in town is there?” He asks the clerk.

“No sir. Nearest stables are up north by Emerald Ranch, or to the East in Saint Denis.”

“Well, alright then. Thank you.” The man waves him off and Arthur walks out the doors onto the main street. Their wagon is still there, a clerk already loading it up with supplies, and as he gets closer, he spots Mrs. Adler standing in the shade of the store porch. She’s wearing new clothes, a shirt and pants, and she’s got a new leather hat too. That pistol of hers sits in a holster on her belt now, gleaming and proud. The shade does little to hide the storm on her face, the anger and the sadness that pass over, one after the other, like drifting clouds. But it would take a blind man to not see how much her stance and posture has relaxed, how she stands with her hands at her belt and not fisted into the material of skirts that she never wanted to wear to begin with.

That look, the pain of it, remembering the sound of her laugh mixing with the turn of the wagon wheels, makes him decide right then and there, and he waves for her to join him on the wagon seat. “You get everything we need?”

“Think so.”

“Well then, Mrs. Adler, what do you say we take a little detour?” He grabs the reins from the seat, but he does not move the horses forward yet.

“What do you mean? More errands?” Her voice is wary, and Arthur hopes he isn’t about to make a mistake.

“Well, I was thinking if you were wanting to come on jobs with us, and if you were going to stay with us for the time being, then we ought to get you your own horse.” It doesn’t much matter to him how long she stays with them, or if she ever rides along on a robbery with them. Maybe she will, maybe she won’t, maybe she will take this favor of his and leave them tomorrow. He will never try and claim to understand the heartache Mrs. Adler must feel, the rage, the crunch and sting of shattering glass. This is just a tiny step toward being a better man and having a woman this strong at his back, one more part of this family of his. This _them_.

It will not fix anything, does nothing to combat the absolute, unceasing grief in Mrs. Adler’s heart, but he tells himself it is something he can do. Something so that the laughter he heard from her today is not the last. Was just the same back in Colter when he went back to her cabin and buried her husband in the ground. Just the same as only ever calling out a greeting to her back in Horseshoe, leaving her alone when she needed it. Something he can do, even if it won't change anything.

“I don’t want no pity, Mr. Morgan.” Her tone says she thinks he is joking, he must be, a cruel barb, and Arthur taps the reins against the shires. They pull at their harnesses, and the wheels break in new tracks toward the little church perched on a hill at the north edge of town. White steeple against blue sky.

“Ain’t nothing pitying about it. Can’t ride out with us if you ain’t got a horse of your own.”

“Mr. Morgan-,”

“Consider this me paying you back, then. I took that stallion from your homestead. Should’ve been yours. But…” That guilt has not bitten at Arthur in a while, and he still regrets selling the stallion off. Should have asked Mrs. Adler if she wanted the horse, ornery as it was, still grieving as she was.

“Ah, that was Felix. He was Jake’s boy. Was always ornery with me.” The smile on her face, the half a wisp of one, has her staring off to the horizon. Something he has never seen before, a memory that does not immediately hurt her, and he bumbles his way on to try and keep her from reminiscing too long.

“Was the outfit a spur of the moment type of thing?” The draft horses hike up the hill, their hooves thumping through the red mud. Wild roses cluster against the churchyard fence, blushing pink against painted white, the air bustling with bumblebees.

“Thought it suited me better than all those skirts. Besides, I can wear what I damn well want.” Mrs. Adler tosses her head, tilts her face toward the sun, warmth over freckles, and Arthur wonders if he could ever have such a strength in himself someday, even a fraction.

“Well, I like the hat.”

* * *

The Scarlet Meadows Stables are not much, something Arthur assumes is characteristic of the entire county, but they have a few horses. Again, not much, but he doubts Mrs. Adler is looking for a fancy steed anyway. When they finally pull up to the barn doors, after a long winding trek past more bayous and swamps than Arthur ever wanted to see, she jumps down from the wagon seat and saunters in like she owns the place. The proprietor tries to throw his weight around, scoffs at a woman wearing pants, and Arthur smirks when Mrs. Adler tells him off for it.

“Are you gonna sell me a horse or not? Ought to take our business elsewhere if this is how you’re gonna be.”

Arthur stands at the open barn doors, keeps an eye on their wagon while Mrs. Adler walks the stalls. She keeps drifting toward a Turkoman stallion, coat gold and dappled like sunshine meadow grass. When the stable owner leaves them alone for a minute, Arthur walks up to her and hands over the money she’ll need for the horse. He tries not to think of the rest of the money in his bag ready to be stashed away in his hidey hole up north, does not think of why he has not put it into the camp funds box.

_Save them._

She scowls at him, nose scrunching, but she takes it, pockets the green bills and goes back to petting the stallion’s cheek. “I ain’t a charity case, Mr. Morgan. I _will_ pay you back.”

“Ah, ain’t no need for that. If you want to be one of us, then that’s it.” She stares at him, but the stable owner comes back, and she lets those words lie.

Arthur stands out by the wagon, gives the big shires a few peppermints each. Heavy crunching and velvet soft noses. He hears some bickering back in the stable over the sound of wind blowing in off the plains, but he ignores that, figures Mrs. Adler can handle herself. The sun is high in the sky by the time she reappears leading the golden stallion. No sign of the stable owner, but the barn doors pull shut once the horse’s rump is clear.

“Well ain’t he a pretty thing.” Arthur coos to the horse, eyeing the white diamond between its eyes.

“This here’s Bob, my new partner in crime.” Mrs. Adler snickers to herself at the joke as she hikes up into the saddle.

“That’s what you’re naming him?” Arthur cannot help the confusion in his voice.

“He’s got paperwork and everything now. So yeah, that’s his name.”

Arthur smiles and shrugs, climbs into the wagon seat, and holds the reins. “Well alright then. You good to head out, Mrs. Adler?”

“After this you ought to just call me Sadie.” She sits in her saddle, looking as settled and content as she could be, and Arthur smiles. The weight on her shoulders is a touch lighter and it hits him like a brick how far she has come since Colter, since all of that cold and the flames engulfing her life. Strongest person he’s ever met, he reckons.

“I will. Just as soon as you call me Arthur.” He jokes, tapping the reins against the shires to get them headed back to camp. Should circle up and around Dewberry creek and head back to camp from the north side. Give Mrs. Adler a chance to get used to Bob and keep them both far away from those swamps.

Mrs. Adler’s eyes narrow, quick as a hawk, a matching smirk on her face. “Well I don’t know if I can manage that, Mr. Morgan.”

* * *

_She cannot sleep. The women keep telling her to rest but she refuses to. Knows there will be no darkness behind her lids, no sleep; just reliving that night over and over and over and over again. Hiding in the darkness of that cellar and hearing that shot and their cruel laughter and biting down on her hand to keep from sobbing in the dark._

_Her eyes feel so dry, should be crying, does not know if she can let herself feel so much just yet. Cried all the first day and now she just feels so empty. So cold, no matter how high they build the fire it is still so cold._

_There is a knock at their cabin door late in the day, she’s not sure which day it is by now, and one of the women, Tilly, kind, gentle, warm, answers it, lets in a man and a draft of freezing air. “Hi, Arthur. Come in, come in, you’re letting all the heat out.”_

_Thumps of heavy boots on the old floorboards. “Evening, Miss Tilly. You all holding up in here alright?” A New Austin accent, rough, familiar from that night in the cabin, the man who led her through the snow with his big shoulders blocking her view of a body only half covered in the bed of their wagon,_

_Sadie reminds herself to not think of that, to choke it down and swallow. Gag on the taste of mud and tears._

_“Oh, we’re doing as well as we can right now. Staying warm enough.”_

_“I’ll head out and get you girls some more firewood after this. Just…uh, needed to speak with Mrs. Adler.”_

_Sadie tears her eyes away from the fireplace, the distracting dance of the flames, looks up to a bull of a man hidden under a heavy blue coat. His scruffy jaw peeks out from the collar, and his eyes look so small hidden under his hat. “Mrs. Adler, my name is Arthur Morgan. I’m sorry to disturb you. Just…wanted to let you know that me and one of the others, Javier, we rode out to your homestead and, ah, buried your husband.” He turns his eyes down to the floor. The bottom half of his coat is caked with snow. Digging a grave in the frozen ground, even with help, must have taken half the day._

_The tear tracks running down her cheeks dried tacky yesterday, and she has not had the energy to cry since, but now her eyes well up, too much, and she bites her tongue so she can get a few words out. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan.”_

* * *

Stupid, that is what he is. All of those jabs Dutch, Hosea, John, everyone, has ever made over the years are all true. Stupid. He is so stupid for thinking this would go just fine, that this day could wrap up without a single hitch. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Burn in hell, O’Driscoll!” Sadie’s voice is a ferocious screech behind him, trailing after the wagon as the shires bolt down the road.

An O’Driscoll patrol saw them from one of the Heartland hills, on the border of their territory, and it only took a few moments for all hell to break loose. Arthur shot a few of them as they raced down the slope, but the gunfire set off the horses and they took off, wagon wheels bouncing and groaning under the strain of such a speed. Sadie, riding alongside on Bob, kept up with Arthur, taking out that pistol of hers and making quick work of the remaining O’Driscolls. She shot to kill, whooping and hollering at those stupid enough to fire back at her.

Arthur pulls at the wagon reins, desperate for the shires to stop so they don’t lose a wheel. They start to slow, a relief, and he turns his head to check on Sadie only to find her spurring Bob as fast as the stallion will go, chasing after the last O’Driscoll trying to escape into the brush by Flat Iron Lake. “Don’t you run away from me!”

The O’Driscoll’s death is a bloody one, and Arthur turns away from it to get the wagon to a full stop. The wagon comes to rest in the red mud, and he rubs a hand down his face, breathes, feels like his ass got bruised from the wagon seat bouncing underneath him. Sadie comes up behind him, Bob trotting along and snorting heavy bursts of air from his nose.

“We showed those O’Driscoll bastards, huh?” Sadie’s grin is more like a coyote’s snarl, wide and full of teeth. There is no spray of blood across her face, but in a mad moment of certainty, Arthur knows it would not bother her one bit if there was.

Arthur coughs into his elbow, tries to hide how out of breath he is from the chase, “Yeah, remind me to not get on your bad side. You did…good.” The glint in her eyes, the red of blood and so much anger glazed there, is something he understands, but that does not mean he is going to mention it out loud.

The trail leading back to camp, tucked into a mess of huckleberry thickets and sticky cottonwood trunks, is only a few hundred feet down the road and the sight of it makes Arthur breathe a sigh of relief. Feels like he needs a few drinks of whiskey to calm his nerves after a day like this one.

“Sorry for getting in your face at breakfast.” He says to Sadie, as they roll down the road at a far more sedate pace.

“You should be. Should’ve let me carve up that roast pig.” Her voice is still rough and rasping, but there is no anger directed at him.

“I appreciate your motivation, Mrs. Adler, I do, but that man feeds us. Without him we’d be shit out of luck right quick.” They turn onto the trail leading toward camp, pushing through a few branches and piles of brush to make it through.

“You ain’t gonna tell Dutch about them O’Driscolls, are you?” Sadie asks from behind the wagon, single file now that they are in the cover of the trees. Her voice does not sound concerned in the slightest.

He thinks not, and only leaves the silence hanging for a moment or two. “Nah, he doesn’t need to know everything. Happened closer to camp than I would like, but not much we can do about that.”

Javier waves to them from his position in the trees, still on watch, rifle at the ready.

The clearing opens up around them, the lake glittering bright in the distance, and Arthur parks the wagon close to the chuckwagon. Sadie rides Bob closer to the posts before dismounting, tying his reins to the post and scratching at his nose. Arthur drops down from the wagon seat and goes to start unloading the supplies.

When Sadie follows after him, hefting up a crate of apples, she says, “Thank you for today, Mr. Morgan.”

Arthur feels surprised at the tone of her voice, the content, calm sound of it, even after a long day and a gunfight besides. Doesn’t think he has ever met a woman quite like her. “Mrs. Adler, I would be honored to have you ride with me again. Anytime you need out of camp, or need someone to shoot O’Driscolls with, just let me know.” He busies himself with hefting crates out of the bed of the wagon, stacking them at their feet.

Sadie smiles. A lone daisy poking out from a drought cracked lakebed. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan. I’d be happy to. If you prove you can handle yourself, that is.”

“I told you to call me Arthur.”

“And I will. Just as soon as you call me Sadie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Facts: Susan and Charles singing “Buffalo Gals” is a canon campfire event, and you should definitely look up a clip of it and drown in the wholesome vibes. Also, my love for Sadie Adler knows no bounds.
> 
> Stay safe everyone!


	23. Thorns

Now that they are in the south, red mud caking the bottom of his boots, Charles feels as though it is a struggle to breathe. Not in the way that signals illness, rather a tense feeling of air pressing in too tight, like a shirt that does not fit. Fabric stretched taut across his shoulders, close to ripping if he moves wrong.

Early morning no longer breaks over the horizon with a crisp chill to the air, clear dew bathing the grass in delicate light. Instead, Charles wakes to too warm air, sweat sticky against the line of his spine with the sun only just peaking up above the far hills. Reedy calls of yellowhammers sounding from the trees, birdsong shrill as heatstroke. The entire camp wakes up at a more sedate pace, as if the lazy heat of midday stretches across all hours here.

That at least suits him just fine, waking up before just about everyone else and having some quiet to himself. He starts the morning fire, sets the coffee pot into its coals, wanders to the herd of horses clumped to one side of the clearing. Finding his way to Taima and petting her soft muzzle, hearing the snuffle of other horses around him, eases his mind some. Even with camp moved and everything settled, he still worries over the circumstances of their arriving here, of having to stay here.

Taima bumps her head against his shoulder, so gentle but so forceful, and he strokes his palm along her cheek. Gray is beginning to show in her muzzle, aging that Charles wants nothing more than to ignore while he still can. But they have had many good years together, and there will come a time when she will need her rest, when her journey will draw closer to an end. She has more than earned a bit of peace, but no matter how much he may want to give such a thing to her, he cannot see much of anything calm on their horizons. Not now, not here, not for them, not for him. Not on any horizon he can see. They’ve raised too much hell for that. In the stillness of morning, mockingbirds calling from the nearby thickets, he wonders what that might be like – a place calm enough to let Taima out to pasture in her final days after she has done so much for him, to not worry about time. To stand with her in the morning calm like this and not worry about whether he will survive to see tomorrow.

“G-good morning, Mr. Smith.” Kieran’s voice, on the edge of the horse herd, a pail of water in each of his hands.

Charles turns to him and nods, “Morning.” They both stare, watch, for a moment too long, and Charles cannot help but roll his eyes at the flinch and cower Kieran lets show. Such a skittish, easy to scare man. But he goes about his work all the same, scurrying to fill the horse trough and fleeing back toward the lake for more.

Dutch still calls him an O’Driscoll, throws threats after him sometimes, but Charles cannot see any sign of such an anger or violence in Kieran. Doesn’t seem like the type to run with a gang like that, from what Charles has heard and seen for himself. The O’Driscolls are certainly not the worst gang he has ever run across, not by a long shot, but they are different from this gang, not as close knit, not the altruistic freedom fighters Dutch insists they are.

Charles knows he could be better about reaching out to Kieran, try to keep from scaring him, but it will settle with time. Fewer flinches, more greetings, and Charles is in no hurry. Not in much of a rush to accept another person into this group of people he is only just starting to think of as part of him. Kieran is kind to the horses at the very least, never bothering anyone, and Arthur has deemed him enough to be kind to.

He stands with Taima a while longer, stands in the calm of her heavy breathing until he hears Pearson clanking and cursing at the chuckwagon, knows the day is about to start and he cannot just stand here and ignore it. Chores to do, snare lines to set, maybe see about robbing some fur traders running along the lakeside that John mentioned last night. Wind murmurs through the oak leaves overhead, flapping and green with late spring.

It gets to him after a tin mug of coffee, after he takes a plate of breakfast from Pearson’s wagon table and chews through it without tasting, after he sits down around the campfire and stares into the flickering orange. There is an itch under his skin, close and biting at his blood. A feeling of needing to leave camp, to be away from here, to put space between him and the rest of the world. Campfire smoke wraps over his arms in a heaving breeze of humid air, brushing massive there, soot caked across a cave ceiling. It is in that itch, scratching thorns rough underneath the meat of his forearm, needing out, when he hears Arthur call out to him. “Hey, Charles!”

A different itch, this one between his ribs, words trapped in the sinew there. He holds them back with easy practice as he looks up to see Arthur walking toward him, waving a hand as if Charles is not twenty feet away and not already looking at him. “Morning, Arthur.”

Arthur drops his hand, stands at the edge of the campfire circle and sets his hands at his belt, nerves plain to anyone who knows him. The others sitting around the same flames, Javier and Uncle, both nod to him and go back to shoveling breakfast into their mouths. But Charles looks. He stares up at Arthur and tries to figure out what could be going on in the man’s head. Instincts whispering that after last time, after _“Then I guess you don’t know me as well as you think you do,” _he ought to flinch back even from this, from unassuming words, fingers too close to the shining, sharp teeth of a stretched and locked bear trap. And under that stare, Arthur turns his face to the ground, hides behind that damn hat of his. A cowardice that, on anyone else, would spark the smallest kernel of Charles’ temper. Or maybe it still does, and Charles chooses to blindly ignore it.

“Was wondering if you might want to head out for a bit and do some hunting. Maybe track some elk up in Cumberland Forest.” Arthur looks up, squinting, sunlit blue eyes catching Charles’, and he does not look away. A strong show for a man who too often seems so afraid.

It is still fragile, this thing between them. Their words cut off, gestures hesitant, averted eyes. Feels like a wound not yet healed, scabbing over but still seeping blood at the edges. Just a few days ago, travelling here, just the two of them, Charles was not sure what would become of that. Felt like the snap of dead wood falling under its own weight. Felt poison dripping down his throat to coat the inside of his stomach. The reminder of this life, the pressure on all of their shoulders right now, was a fair one. But it was unsettling to see Arthur so angry, to hear him be so cruel without prompt. Animosity in the faces of a family Charles assumed Arthur would do everything he could to help. Remembers standing on the outskirts of that homestead and watching Arthur forgive a debt rather than hurt a man. Knows how he is with little Jack, with near everyone in camp, a kind man willing to fight for what he cares for.

Charles, who never has a problem being honest with others, feels a prickle of fear at admitting to himself how upset he felt to have his trust broken like that. To be unsure, even for those few hours, of what Arthur would say or do. Fear at what that means, how it still stings under his skin, soft nettle spines.

Something in Arthur’s mannerisms now, one boot kicking at the grass underfoot, adams apple bobbing with a nervous swallow, shows he is just as unsure, maybe just as afraid. But he stands there, does not break Charles’ gaze. Straightens his spine and holds back a flinch with a tensing of his shoulders, puts effort into not curling in on himself, into not rescinding the offer.

Never hears Arthur offer this to anyone else, only ever sees the man ride out of camp on his own. Perhaps the desire to repair their friendship is not as one-sided as he feared. And nothing in Charles wants to turn down the offer, does not want their friendship to sputter out because of this.

And that itch under his skin means he needs to be out of this clearing, needs to move, needs to be away from this humid heat and the tension it brings. It breaks through the nervous tingling in his belly at the prospect of riding out into the woods with Arthur again. Or maybe it is all the same thing, all rolling into the same feeling of wanting to get out of camp with Arthur by his side, fear cast aside because in the warmth of Arthur’s smile that itch, the bite of it, leaves.

“Sure.”

Arthur smiles, just at the corners of his mouth, bright and hopeful in the morning sun.

* * *

They follow the trail leading out of camp, the road north, but Arthur leads them off the red dirt path after a while, cutting through fields and stands of trees. It mirrors the trail they took to find Clemens Point, but Charles holds his tongue. Doubts either one of them wants a reminder of that day. The horses clop through meadows heavy and full with spring. Clumps of dandelions thick under horse hooves, bunches of pink burdock thistles bristling with bumblebees and delicate spider webs.

As they ride out to the open plains to the north, the wind picks up, and Charles feels some of the weight on his shoulders go with it. Distant mountains hang blue and faded against the horizon, only a few with a dusting of snow at their peaks. The sight of them scratches at the itch that has migrated to his chest, deep between his shoulder blades.

“I appreciate you coming out with me today. I feel better knowing you’ve got my back.” Arthur speaks up after a while, a brutal honesty, and Charles feels his lungs squeeze at the sentiment, wants to echo it.

Trust is a hard-won thing, and though Charles still worries over what was said last they rode out, he feels a gentle warmth spread in his chest at the reminder. “All the better to keep you from doing something stupid, right?”

“Not sure even a man like you could keep me from being a moron, Charles.” The words are self-deprecating, but Arthur’s tone is soft, amused.

“A man like me, huh?” This he throws out without thinking, voice as playful as he dares make it, wishes some of the other words digging sharply into his chest would have such an easy time getting out.

Arthur stammers, caught off guard. “I mean…No, no, I meant-,”

Charles laughs under his breath and feels like he could fall with it, “Just teasing you, Arthur.”

“Oh, ah, right.” A clearing of a throat, Arthur’s hat turning down to hide his face, those nerves that seem so harmless when they are out here, when it is just the two of them.

They skirt around Emerald Ranch, taking a path that leads them through the sloping curves of the Heartland hills. Wind buffeting the ocean of tall grasses in a dance that Charles feels like he could stare at forever and not mind getting lost in it. The sharper hillsides that mark the beginning of the Grizzlies come into view after cantering over a few more hills and valleys, and the sprawling forests tucked along the slopes look so welcoming in the warm sun.

As they approach the hills, Arthur slows them down to a walk, a gentle pull at Rosie’s reins that Charles knows he will not have to mirror; Taima will slow to match the other mare’s pace. Always does.

Arthur reaches into his satchel, digs around for a moment, “Oh, and I uh, didn’t tell you after it happened because, well…” He clears his throat, finds what he must be looking for, “That German fella, he gave me something for us helping him. Figured it’d be easier to share in cash, so I sold it to a fella over at Emerald who runs a pretty solid racket. Here’s your share.” He tosses over a money clip of all things, glinting in the sun.

When Charles catches it, he feels the heft of it, too many bills. The ruffle of green edges rasps under his fingers, and his eyes feel glued to it. “Arthur…how much is this?”

“Whole thing got me five hundred, so that there’s your two and a half. Try not to spend it all at once, right?”

Charles looks up, catches Arthur winking at him only to immediately frown and duck his head in the next moment. Maybe there is a faint blush across his sun tinged cheeks, but Charles is not paying much attention to that. He is trying to remember how to breathe. “You didn’t take out Dutch’s cut?” His voice sounds so small he is sure Arthur has no chance of hearing him.

“Hey now. It’s supposed to be the gang’s cut, not just Dutch’s. And you earned that for helping some good folk who wanted to repay your kindness. We weren’t on some job, and it wasn’t some con. Far as I’m concerned, that money is yours alone.” Arthur is staring straight ahead when Charles glances over. Even slowed to a walk, the horses are coming up on a railroad line running straight east. There is a train chugging along toward them, and Taima slows along with Rosie as they come closer to the tracks.

It feels as though in the past few weeks, after the Blackwater job, after the ice of Colter melted from them, there has been a tension between Arthur and Dutch. Yet there was no fight to spark it, no argument, at least not that Charles knows of. An overgrown garden springing up overnight, tangled vines and choking weeds. His understanding of how the gang was formed is vague at best, but he knows Dutch and Arthur go back further than nearly anyone in the gang. Waters that run so deep Charles would have no idea where to even begin. Arthur mentioned before, only in passing, mumbled words, that maybe the gang is not what it once was, what it has always been, changing as Dutch tries to steer them in this new world. But if this keeping of money out of the camp funds is Arthur’s way of rebelling against Dutch, Charles wants no part in it.

“What…what did he give you?”

“Crazy fellar gave me a gold bar. Couldn’t believe it.”

Charles sucks in air too sharp and it dries out his mouth. Feels a sting like snow blowing into his eyes. He expects a mention of why Arthur has not spoken of this to Dutch, why the gold was not handed over for the sake of the whole camp, why,

“I know it’s a lot, Charles, but there ain’t no reason for Dutch to have that money. You earned it, fair and square. The camp is doing just fine, and we’re getting back on our feet. The gang is important but…you gotta take care of yourself sometimes too.” Arthur sounds as if he is trying to convince himself as much as convince Charles. There is the sound of his nails scratching at the scruff along his jaw.

Taima stops at the rail line, waiting for the train to chug its way past them. The money clip sits heavy in Charles’ hands, and he wants to throw it back to Arthur, but his fingers have a death grip. “Is this your way of opposing Dutch’s decisions lately? Because if it is, I want no part in it. This money should be for the camp. And if he finds out-,” Charles hates how bitter his words sound, falling so flat and desperate in the air, but he has so much more to lose in this than Arthur. His seniority, his relationship with Dutch and Hosea – they would easily turn Charles out of the gang before they turn on Arthur. Even if he were to tell their leader about what Arthur has done, what he has been saying lately in small mumbles under his breath, a thought that makes his guts squirm, he doubts Dutch would even believe him.

The train caboose passes them by, and the road ahead of them is clear and open, but Arthur does not spur Rosie forward. “He won’t find out. And besides, I did the same. This would come down on my head long before it got to you. And I wouldn’t let him do nothing to you even if…He’s…Dutch has been different lately. Not how he used to be.” Charles looks over, but Arthur has his hat turned down to cover his eyes, his chin tucked into his shirt collar. There is no chance to meet his eyes, to acknowledge the protective air practically billowing out of his nostrils like the snort of a bull, no chance to meet his eye and try to figure out what he wants from this, what sort of motive such a careful man could have in saying such a thing.

Taima starts forward on her own, bored with staying still, Rosie quick to follow, and Charles waits for Arthur’s next words, listens to the wind whispering through the scrub surrounding the rail gravel. Because more than ever before, Charles does not know what to say. Does not know how to put this mix of dread and worry into words. Water bugs darting away from shadows. Wishes he could feel anger over this, so much easier to be angry at Arthur for this.

“Listen. I ain’t asking you to question Dutch’s judgement the way I have been lately. Hell, you haven’t been riding with us long enough for that. You probably think I’m spouting horseshit. But…what happened in Blackwater was a bad bit of business. I wasn’t there, and I don’t know what bad calls he made, but I know what Dutch did was wrong. More than just a mistake. One he never would have made before. Or maybe he would have and I just…And ever since then he’s been…well, he ain’t Dutch. No better way to say it, I don’t think.” Arthur’s accent thickens with how sad he sounds, how forlorn.

Charles hears the faint fear in Arthur’s voice, a whisper on the wind, and does not know how to take it. The way he mumbles some of it, how he catches on his own words, says the rest to the air as though it will carry them away. “Strange to hear you talking like that.”

The road curves up towards the hills overlooking the plains, trail turning steep and rocky. Songbirds call out from the scrub pine branches reaching out from the edges of the trail, finches that sound so familiar compared to the strange calls of the Southern birds back at camp. The faintest dribble of a stream hidden in a nearby thicket.

Arthur falls into silence again, but Charles feels more words left unsaid, feels the man’s need to say more, get his thoughts out of his skull. They pass ancient pine and spruce trees, the ground underneath the horses’ hooves bouncy with needles. The incline steepens as they go, and by the top of the hill, “I never liked thinking about the future. Before…It was easy to just leave that mess alone for when it did come around.” Arthur turns his head away from the trail, away from Charles, to look out over the nearby cliff edge, the vast empty space of the sky, a patchwork of grasslands and dusty plains sprawling out below them as they climb.

A beautiful view, but Charles watches Arthur, his face turned away and spine tense. He wishes they could go back in time, back to that night when they brought Sean back, a sip of whiskey on his breath and Arthur’s head nearly leaning against his shoulder. Calm and comfortable and not a danger in sight. Not so long ago, but it feels like an age, and he wants to go back to that, when their lives were easier, when Arthur did not seem so afraid.

“Now, though, I’m worried about Dutch. He ain’t the man I thought I knew a few months ago. Or, hell, maybe he is, and I really am just a fool. But the man I know wouldn’t have…well, he wouldn’t have killed that girl in Blackwater. He wouldn’t be looking for Colm or this Cornwall fellar. He wouldn’t be staying here to let the Pinkertons sniff around. Seems more and more like he just wants to kick the hornets nest.”

“So, you’re keeping money aside because…why? You’ve stopped agreeing with Dutch?” Charles wishes his tone could be harsher, not so drained, maybe make Arthur fumble and backtrack to the easy banter they had at the start of this trip. But nothing either of them say can turn the clock back and erase what Arthur has admitted.

Bright eyes turning to meet dark ones, Arthur’s soul flayed open in the forest air, and he shakes his head to look up at the sky. His eyes are so light, like gemstones. “Too many folks could get hurt in all of this. I know I haven’t been acting like myself, but I feel like I can’t just let this lie. That’s why I’ve been…” Another glance, another blast of honesty that feels as blunt and hot as a sandstorm. “…This gold bar ain’t the first. Found a few others roaming around the open country here and…any time I find something extra, and I think the camp is doing alright, I…hide it away. Is isn’t to go against Dutch, not really. I just don’t want him to be our only out.”

Charles’ mind whirls with this, the cut of its secrecy, the sudden realization of where the hell Arthur has been riding off to on his own the past weeks, but it aligns so well with the hints over the past month. Words whispered and muttered, never said, not even shouted. Hushed arguments and a tension lingering around father and son, Dutch watching Arthur with distrustful eyes, seeming unaware of how Arthur mirrors that same gaze.

And Charles hears Arthur’s voice, the genuine, dangerous caring in his rasping words now. The glint of a bison’s dark eyes as it charges wolves circling the herd.

“Guess I didn’t expect something like that from you. Seems foolish to tell someone about it.” Charles’ teeth bite down around the words.

“Ah, I don’t know about that. Just figured…Knew I could trust you with it. You’re not just ‘someone’.” Arthur says, nervous, looking to Charles and away again, flitting glances that speak of so much anxiety.

_“I’m with you, Arthur.”_ Charles remembers his words, how happy he felt at being able to give Arthur such a small thing. The scraping hurt of his voice on that homestead collecting debts, how he looked to Charles for support and kindness, unsure if he would get it, if he deserved it, fear showing in every tic of his nerves.

Could admonish him for being so dishonest, keeping money out of the camp funds, for being so disloyal to a group he claims to care for so much. Let the memory of Dutch pulling Charles up out of the mud and giving him a place in the gang overpower the small moments between him and Arthur, the kind words and the trust he has never felt with anyone else. It would let that itch between his shoulder blades out, let the anger and the doubt vent into the air, sharp and violent enough to sever this thread between them, this something Charles still wants no matter how much he reminds himself not to. Would be the end of it, of them, of this.

Could give in to all the worries of these past weeks and agree with Arthur, keep this secret, give in to that warm hope between them, that instinctive trust in Charles’ mind that tells him Arthur would never do him any harm.

It would take a real fool to not feel the tension in the gang over the past few weeks. The old guard, as he understands it, is not near the same as it once was. With Blackwater behind them, Colter’s snow melted off of them, Dutch is off on his own making plans only he knows the details of, Hosea trying to follow but too caught up in the morals the gang has always followed. John doing his best to simultaneously avoid and cling to his family. And Arthur, trying to keep them all together, trying to keep them all safe.

Dutch took Charles in all those months ago, a hand to pull him up out of the mud after an awful barfight, gave him a place to sleep and food to eat, gave him people he could trust enough to watch his back. And that is really what made him stay more than anything, having people to feed, having people to sleep beside without fear, that is what drew him into this gang, not the money or the rush of this life. And that will always be worth so much more to him, having that place to return to, people to return to. And maybe that is what Arthur is getting at. That Dutch has lost sight of what really matters in this.

He lets Arthur squirm for a few minutes, lets him spur at Rosie’s flanks only for the horse to wicker and trot up the hill at her own pace. Charles knows the next words out of his mouth will be too important. “I appreciate the trust, Arthur. And it matters to me who I follow. If you’re keeping an eye on Dutch, then so will I.” Not much of anything has been consistent in Charles’ life, not for many many years. Not since he was a child and his mother kissed his forehead before singing him to sleep each night. But this is the first time in so long that he has been a part of a group that could become anything close to that. For now, the gang is a group he wants to be a part of, feels the loneliness of so many years on his own falling away like spring plum blossoms in a rainstorm. It is slow going, but he can see getting there, can see becoming like Arthur in caring for these people, can feel the warmth spreading through his chest of knowing he has a place, a group, to go back to.

“I have to admit, Charles, I’m not sure what to say to that. Besides, well, thank you. Knowing you’ve got my back is…just thank you.” Arthur has no problem looking him in the eye now, and Charles wonders, if he really tried, if he could resist the temptation of meeting Arthur’s gaze, if he could resist the sharp desire to ignore his lingering worries and instead just trust his gut, trust Arthur. “And it ain’t like that so much. I don’t think he’ll hurt anyone. It’s just…we used to help people. Not just taking in strays,” Arthur gestures to Charles, an apologetic turn to his mouth and his voice, “But we would give the money we stole back to the poor. Never killed unless we had to. There was never talk of going after Colm or anything. First sniff of trouble and we were off running, headed to the next town. We just…” Arthur sighs, heavy in his lungs, and Charles tells himself he doesn’t watch the pout of Arthur's lips with the release of air.

“You lived the way you knew how. And now even that is disappearing.” Charles glances away from watching Arthur, tells himself he has to, and looks around at the trees surrounding them now, puffs of pale dust rising from the horses’ hooves.

“Time is a funny thing. The future…never used to think about it before. But now, with all that’s been happening, I feel like I can’t stop.” Arthur says, wistful as rotten oak bark.

“I try not to think about it. The worst always seems to catch up with me sooner or later. Haven’t had the time to look ahead for a lot of years.” Charles says into his shirt collar. His hands, holding Taima’s reins, littered with scars and burn marks and so many reminders of the years he spent running. Only just recently has he started to think he does not want to run again, refuses to, does not want to leave another group of people to be lost to the world.

“Suppose you’ve seen your fair share of people stray the wrong way.” Charles refuses to look up at Arthur now, to see the pity no doubt in his eyes.

“More than is fair, I think.” When no more words follow, Charles feels stricken with needing to say more, a feeling he seems to only get around Arthur. Never feels a need to say more around any of the others, never. Used to his words sticking in his throat, still as moss coated stones. “I understand what you mean about worrying, about not knowing what might come next. You certainly know the gang better than I do, and I trust your judgement.”

Charles’ feels an instinctive sort of calm, a knowing his words take root in. So many moments between them have lead to that, he thinks, rides out into the country and late nights at campfires and kind words and rasping pages, all soothing the prickle of thorns behind his ribs.

Arthur nods to him, eyes more heartfelt than Charles knows what to do with. He lifts his hat and runs a hand through his hair, shorn short at the sides, the color of sunlit buckwheat at the top. “Well, I hope that trust is not misplaced. Thank you, for it. And I’m really hoping that money can just stay hidden. Contingency plans are nice and all, but it makes me nervous.”

Charles pauses for a breath, catches himself watching Arthur’s arm move, feels his own fingers itch to do the same, feels like his mind swims in fog for a moment. His cheeks feel warm. “Was that all you brought me out here for? To tell me you’re being dishonest but for a good reason?”

Arthur turns to him and smiles, those blue eyes of his shine in the sunshine, and it is such a genuine sight that Charles cannot help but smile to match him. “Nah not just that. That was part of it though; trust you to have my back, always. Now, let’s find us some elk. Big as they are, they shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

* * *

It is late into the afternoon, nearing sunset, by the time they find a decent game trail to follow. This late into spring, the forests are a mess of green and fresh growth, flower buds beginning to open, pollen heavy on the air. Arthur follows behind him, surprisingly quiet for such a big man.

When they dismounted from the horses and started out into the forest on foot, Charles felt surprise, but such a calm, glowing happiness at seeing his bow slung over Arthur’s shoulders. Does not know exactly what the feeling is, does not know if he wants to put words to it. The weightlessness of diving into a swimming hole, deep blue water and relief from summer heat.

The trail they follow only shows signs of smaller creatures, fleet-footed rabbits and fox tracks, small piles of droppings from deer and bighorn sheep, but Charles knows it will lead somewhere they can pick up another trail. The hike is a steep one, but they eventually come to a small, flatter clearing along one of the ridges edging out from the Grizzlies mountain range. They crouch in the thick brush at the edge of the field, watching a herd of deer grazing at the far end. White-tails, a grouping of does and some fawns, a few males at the fringes of the group.

In the closeness of the thicket, Charles feels how close he is to Arthur, such a small distance between them, shadows fluttering between blackberry vines, so easy to reach and grab ahold of the man’s hand. When Arthur freezes, going so still, Charles wonders if the same thought occurs to him, that same want bubbling up only to be wrenched back, a lasso drawn taught around a bulls neck. He keeps his eyes staring ahead, does not want to look and be proven wrong, does not want to be proven right only to have to turn himself away.

A snap of a twig under Arthur’s boot, and the herd startles, with one of the males turning sharp to stare at them, dark eyes gazing through the underbrush and landing right on them. Its antlers are only short nubs of velvet peaking from the top of its skull. The does bound away further into the forest, fawns leaping after them, but the lone buck stands stock-still.

Arthur’s eyes are staring at the stag as if the rest of the world has faded away, face slack and lips parted. A tremor runs through him, over his shoulders and down his spine, and his lungs let out a strangled groan before he drops his head to look at the ground, breathing with a tight, frantic rhythm to his ribcage. His nostrils flare and his eyes pinch shut, and the hand Charles thought about taking ahold of clenches into a tight fist.

“Arthur? Are you alright?” Charles reaches a hand out to grip Arthur’s shoulder, feels how solid he is, and the tremble hidden under his jacket. It is such a strange reaction, and Charles has no idea how to fix this, how to help. When he looks back to the clearing, tries to find what might have set Arthur off, the deer is gone, not even a tremor in the nearby brush to show its hasty exit.

Arthur coughs, heavy and brutal into the curve of his elbow, “Fine. Sorry I scared them off.”

Charles narrows his eyes, looks from Arthur back to the clearing. Not sure what to make of this, what to say. “It’s alright. We can check back tomorrow morning.” He knows they could continue searching for tracks, for any signs of elk so they might hunt one or two and hurry back to camp. They could. But Charles has no desire to hurry this along, does not want to remember where they have to return to, the heat and the sticky tension there. And he would rather set up camp before darkness falls on them entirely. Arthur does not seem ill, just shaken, keeping his eyes trained on the ground and his hands clenched. And Charles does not sense anything wrong here, but maybe Arthur does. “Let’s head back to the horses.”

* * *

Their campfire is nothing special, but it fights against the bite of a chill in the air. This close to the mountains it is easy to forget the heat and sweat of the south, something they both gripe about as they settle in.

“Cold nights like this almost make me miss camp.” Arthur sketches in his journal, looking up for a moment to flash a bright flare of a smile.

“I wouldn’t go that far, not yet anyway. If this trail takes us back up toward Colter, then I’ll agree with you.” Charles says, revels in the chuff of laughing air Arthur lets out. He sets their supper over the flames, salted meat and a few canned goods Pearson was kind enough to give them, and he asks to the air, “Mind if I ask what you’re sketching?”

Arthur looks up at him, pencil stilling against the page, but there is no fear in his eyes, no trace of the worry Charles dreaded his words might bring. “Ah, just one of those deer we saw earlier. Here, if ah, you want to take a look. Ain’t finished, but…” Arthur’s arm is steady when he holds out his journal, and Charles sits beside him, takes the book in his hands like the precious thing it is. Worn leather soft against his fingers.

It is a deer. Not the one from earlier, Arthur must be mistaken because the antlers are huge compared to the spring buck from their tracking, but it is a magnificent stag, branching antlers and thick shoulders. In all of his years of hunting, Charles knows a buck like this is a rare sight. Arthur has not finished the sketch, the fur still patchy in places, the eyes not yet filled in with pencil, staring blank and pale against the page, but it is an impressive drawing.

Charles feels that itch between his ribs again, words trapped and digging into his flesh, and when he looks back up to Arthur, sees the trust in his eyes, soft as velvet, he asks, “Do you mind if I…” He trails off, lets his fingers trail over the journal pages. He has done this once before, what feels like so long ago, and his heart races just the same.

“Oh, ah, sure. If you want to bother.” Arthur shrugs, face turned away to hide the eager tone in his voice, moves to stand and tend to the fire and their meal.

“Never a bother, Arthur.” Charles sees the pause in Arthur’s shoulders, how he takes a moment to hear those words. Not a flinch, not a falter, just a pause in the wind, leaves and flower petals coming to rest before the next breeze.

Charles flips back a solid chunk of pages, pauses over that sketch of Rosie and Taima from so long ago, violet lupines in fading sunlight, a different campfire. As he goes, he sees a few pages have been cut out with the clean slice of a knife, others ripped from the spine leaving jagged teeth behind. He is not sure what could warrant such a thing; many of Arthur’s failed sketches remain on the pages, plants with odd shading, some attempts at broken bottles, an antelope with one too many legs and a thick, frustrated scribble running across the middle.

A sketch of a coyote running off with a bag. It brings a smile to Charles’ face, reading of a photographer Arthur seems to keep running into out in the country. A nervous man Arthur seems to think rather highly of. There is a photograph tucked into the following pages, a pack of wolves in black and white, and the entry underneath it reads, _Met Mr. Mason again. Fool seems hellbent on getting himself eaten._

Some of the entries, flowing script and scribbled notes in the margins, are happy, are hopeful. Others are not. Charles feels his mouth frown into a grim line when a portrait of a woman appears, beautiful, detailed, shading along her cheeks the familiar smudge of Arthur’s thumb, and an ‘ML’ underneath her picture. He reads Arthur’s words, ignores the sound of Arthur puttering around their camp, splitting another log for the fire, turning the meat spit over the flames.

_Got a letter from Mary, today. Asking for my help. Oh Mary. I feel like a fool. She plays me like a fiddle, and I let her for reasons I do not understand. I don’t love her anymore, least, not in the same way. I know I did at one time, but that time is past. And there is some strange comfort in that. Suppose it will help to know that I did what I could to help her with her brother. I hope she can forgive me for the things I have said, though she has always been stronger than me in that. Was always able to forgive._

Charles remembers more of that day than he cares to. Seeing Arthur like that, his skin ripped back from the bones and left to feel the sting of open air, it riled him up then, made his guts writhe, and now is no different. Seeing Arthur’s words put to it is of little comfort. Even the admission, the lost, forgotten thing of Arthur’s love for her, does not get to mean anything anyway. He flips to the next page, grips the journal spine.

_Rode out there to see her in Valentine with Charles. Didn’t think I should bring him, second guessed myself the whole way, but he’s got a good head on his shoulders. Seems to always know what to say or when to say nothing at all. It’s a gift I do not possess and find myself wishing I had. Now more than ever._

_He’s a good man and a good friend._ _Someone I think I’ll need by my side in the coming months. Don’t know how he does it, but the world feels calmer with him there, as if all this ain’t so complicated._

Reading it, seeing it put to a page, is odd. They have said as much to each other, friends, trust, but knowing it this way, visceral, dried blood under his fingernails, makes his skull echo.

Arthur sits a few feet from him, cleaning one of his pistols in the light of the fire, amber light on disassembled iron parts.

He turns a few more pages, passing over sketches of horses and cattle, lone houses out on the plains with smudges at their windows, the shape of some tracks Arthur must have found and not known what he was dealing with judging by the question mark scribbled in the margin. Javier’s guitar, the pattern of the man’s poncho. Karen and her blonde curls, her bright grin. Strauss’ glasses left to glint in the sunshine on a table. Lenny and Sean leaning on each other, whiskey bottles in their hands and laughs in the lines around their eyes. Little Jack standing amidst the flock of camp chickens, his gap-toothed smile.

Then he finds a sketch, a figure holding an axe at a chopping block, blocky stature and flowing movement. Words tucked up close to the top.

_Charles is a good friend. A man I find I respect more than just about anyone. And I…I cannot help but notice the little things about him that I know I shouldn’t. And this…this feeling is something I haven’t felt since Mary. Every time I talk to him it’s like my skin feels too tight. I stare and I feel like I cannot help myself, but I know that I should. Should be_

And Charles drops his eyes from the page because he needs to, because that is a lot, too much, and fuck if that isn’t hard to take, hard to accept, to reject. Even a cut off thought, a half-finished entry, it is too personal, too much, makes his lungs constrict. Makes his ears fill with buzzing, overwhelming cotton. Knows it means nothing, will amount to nothing. It has to. He turns the page, too much, his mouth dry and his tongue too big to fit comfortably between his teeth, piercing until he tastes blood.

That sketch from so many nights ago, of John and Sean sitting around their little campfire, tired and restless and alive after that train job. Their expressions, the emotions captured in them, still look so real, so warm. Charles remembers Arthur leaning over to show this, remembers that trust, and he turns the page again to see what he must have written that night.

_Well, Marston sure picks winners. Seems like every job we take nowadays has a catch at the end. He had the idea to block the train tracks, and it was a good one seeing as we were able to rob the train. But the law turned up, too quick and too many. Figure we might have a rat. Not sure what to do about all of this. Scared to tell Hosea, don’t dare tell Dutch. _

That uncertainty, a pressure present in Arthur’s voice today when he admitted to so much, is unsettling. It means more than Charles has ever dealt with, has never been a part of a group long enough to reach this point.

He turns to the next page, tries to keep his mind away from that, from a wound only just scabbing over. Tries to remember the feeling of happiness from the first time Arthur let him read this, let him see. It is so much scarier now, knowing what he knows, but that warmth, flames against a blizzard, still tries to clench tight and comforting around his heart.

There is a sketch of the camp horses with the lake in the background, lines tranquil and careful, at Clemens Point now. Charles turns the page, expects to see more recent drawings, of the frogs and turtles Jack has been catching in the lake mud, the dragonflies that come to rest on their tentpoles in the heat of the afternoon. But it is a sketch of a vague figure on a horse, appaloosa spots on the rump, Taima, lines messy and hurried. And beside that,

His fingers drift down the page, feeling the paper rasp against his skin. Does not know how to feel at seeing himself on the page. Any noise in the clearing, the campfire, Arthur coughing when a breeze picks up the campfire smoke, it all fades out. Charles stares down into eyes he rarely sees, seldom forces himself to look into a mirror and face what he is, the scars and the marks and so much else. But on this page, an entire page, it is different. The dark mess of his hair, the heavy slope of his nose, lips lined thick with careful strokes. Sharp pencil lines to mark the scaring along his cheek, such care taken to outline scar tissue, a broken part of him. Does not know how to breathe if this is the way Arthur sees him. A 'CS' below the drawing, a scribble underneath that that is dug deep into the paper.

_Charles and I saved a German family who were in the process of getting themselves killed. More Charles than me. I ran my mouth like I always do and said some things I regret. Wasn’t right to take my fears out on others, least of all Charles. He helped that family and found us a new spot for camp._

That day, moving camp, was a mess. Biting, harsh words, no chance to hold them back. Not with the heat of the south and the fear of losing all of this burning, singing, at his neck. He does not regret that, remembers Arthur’s apology, but is almost afraid to read what he wrote.

_Charles. He is a better man than me. So much better. He does not need to think to be good. It comes naturally to him, like good is deep within his heart, as opposed to the conflict raging within me. Not for the first time I am glad to have him at my back, to call him friend, to know that I can rely on him in this crazy world. _

Warmth wells up in his throat, threatens to cut off his air, and he closes the journal. Soft, cool whispers of mint leaves against his skin. “Thank you, Arthur. Your sketches really are beautiful.”

“Ah, well, thank you. You’re the only one who’s ever asked.” Arthur’s smile is small, content. He reaches out, takes the journal back, and he seems on the cusp of saying something, before he tucks the book back into his satchel, turns to the campfire and checks the cans huddled in the coals.

Charles wants to keep talking, wants to tell Arthur how strong he is, how much strength it must have taken to walk away from someone like Mary, to focus on moving forward the best he can. How incredible his drive to protect the gang is, how much he has put into keeping them all safe. Charles fights the way his heart quivers in his chest, an uncertain jitter. Wants to tell Arthur that no one has ever looked at Charles, seen him, that way. As if he is worthy of it. Never written about him as if he is someone good.

But his lungs constrict, feels like he swam too deep without taking in enough air, straining for the relief of the surface. So, he stays there. Remains in that pit and tries to ignore the pain of not enough air, words, in his lungs.

* * *

Camp is thankfully calm when they ride back. The horses are exhausted after such a long trip, and Charles is glad to take the weight of the elk pelts and meat from Taima’s back. She shakes out her coat when he pulls her saddle away, steps away from him and gives a full body shudder.

Pearson is more than happy to take the meat off of their hands. A big guffawing laugh, his belly shaking with it, “Well thank you both very much. This is certainly appreciated. You two always come through when we need it most. Thank you.”

When they drift apart, tents on opposite sides of camp, “Thank you for coming with me, Charles.” Arthur says.

“Of course. Anytime.” He keeps his eyes away from Arthur, still cannot bring himself to meet the man’s eyes for very long. Journal pages rasping against his fingers, his own eyes, more beautiful than they could ever really be, staring back at him from a smudged page.

Later, after a few hours to rest and clean up, Charles sits down at the fire with a bowl of elk stew at supper time, receives a few cheers from the others. Sean calls out a “Cheers to the man who keeps on feeding us lowlifes out of the kindness of his heart.”

Charles’ ears burn at the attention, and when Arthur sits beside him, he is glad to see he is not the only one, the man’s ears and neck are flushed as well. Those sitting at the campfire call out their thanks to them, but he only nods to them, digs into his food with his head tucked down.

Spurs and a voice Charles feels too aware of now, Dutch, “Mr. Smith, thank you as always for ensuring our food supply. It is good to know we can always rely on you.” Dutch’s hand comes down on Charles’ shoulder, heavy and warm through his shirt. Thick rings pressing in. His shoulders give a twitch, not quite a flinch, at remembering what Arthur said on their ride out.

_“I know what Dutch did was wrong. More than just a mistake”_

But he nods up at Dutch, thankful when the man moves away and stops hovering over his shoulder. He moves on to Arthur, “And, of course, the same should be said for our dear Mr. Morgan. Thank you, son.” Dutch does the same to Arthur, a hand at his shoulder, a few pats, and he is walking off again.

Arthur’s face does not flinch, not as Charles expects. There is a smile, soft and delicate as an eggshell. Wistful, the look fading into a frown, a grim set to his mouth. He tucks his head down, and once he looks up again that sadness is gone. Only a few moments, all he takes for himself, before he is back to what the others expect to see. He is smiling, asking Karen about her day, asking Sean if he managed to do much of anything at all, asking Javier if he has found a good fishing spot around here yet.

It rings dishonest in Charles’ ears, knows a truth none of the others do. Knows now how much Arthur cares to keep this camp safe. Willing to risk his own neck, endanger his place amongst these same people, all for their sakes.

When Arthur chances a glance over to him, Charles feels that pit open up underneath his feet, and does not fear it. He smiles, knows it does not suit his face, but wants to try for Arthur’s sake.

The grin that answers him, sunburnt cheeks and crows feet, squeezes the nerves in his stomach until they no longer matter, until all he feels is a glow of warmth and affection wrapped secure and sure around his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: I must have rewritten this about 12 times.
> 
> Stay safe y'all <3


	24. Magicians

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by all y’all in the comments being so NICE. I appreciate your kind words so so much. Thank you <3

“How are you feeling, son?”

Strong words in a weak breeze. Oak leaves flutter overhead. Arthur stops in his tracks, turns to Dutch, standing at the mouth of his tent with a cigar between his teeth and a hand at his hip. A king presiding over his subjects.

Lake waves lap behind him, still cool and shadowed in the late morning light. “Fine.” Arthur hears his own voice and feels like a kid again, angry and surly at the world for no real reason. No reason he can put words to, that is. None of his own words, anyway.

_The devil._

Dutch rolls his eyes. But just a small one, nothing Arthur hasn’t seen before. Nothing he needs to worry over. “It’s funny, us ending up down here. You know my daddy died in a field in Pennsylvania, fighting this lot. I ever tell you that?”

Arthur wishes he knew where this was going, what to say to get through it faster so he can go about his morning. Misses the days when talking to Dutch was all he ever wanted. “Uh huh.”

“I see I’m boring you, Arthur.” Dutch’s voice only carries a trace of venom, some harmless irritation to be ignored, like a dog shaking off rain. But Arthur’s mind leaps, grabs ahold of it. Fingernails scrabbling at sharp sandstone cliff edges.

“_You_ are worrying me, Dutch. Us being down here can only be a bad thing. Nothing funny about it. We lost people back in Blackwater.” No one is really around them to listen in, but Arthur keeps his voice level, just for Dutch, trying to make him hear this.

“Oh, I’m worrying you? What about yourself, Arthur? Soon as that snow melted off of us, you’ve been acting like a stranger. You’re worrying me, son.” Dutch’s eyes, so dark, so sincere. At least they look it.

Arthur grits his teeth and refuses to bow down under that. Pushes down the childish thought that maybe he read all of this wrong. “We don’t lose people like that, Dutch. Not that many and not…not for no reason like that.”

Mac and Davey were never his favorites, always too wild and reckless for Arthur’s taste, but that doesn’t mean they needed to die for it. And Jenny, poor Jenny, caught up in all of this mess. She hadn’t run with the gang for very long, and all it took was a stray bullet. A quick end to a kind girl who could have been so much more if not for them.

“We have lofty goals. We are trying to reform society to a kinder, truer, better way. Now of course, there are going to be casualties.” In the glassy glint of Dutch’s eyes there is another glimpse of that man, the one that Arthur feels deep in his bones he does not know, a cold, uncaring man. A frightening man.

“Listen to yourself, Dutch. We are thieves, robbers, criminals. Nothing else. And this world doesn’t want people like us anymore. Ain’t it about time we pull on the brakes before this train we’re on crashes off the tracks?” Dutch’s mustache lifts as he opens his mouth to bark back, but Arthur presses on, “I know I’ve been acting different, Dutch, but it’s because I don’t want anyone hurt in this.”

“No, you listen to yourself, Arthur-,” The spittle clinging at the corners of a wolf’s snarl.

“Gentlemen! Mind joining me for a spot of fishing?” Hosea’s voice crows, sudden and barging between them. His boots slip in the mud in his hurry. “Nice day out, found a new spot that’s just teeming with fish. How about it?”

The mounting tension of their argument fizzles away, a hot skillet taken off the flames, and Arthur takes a step back. Shouldn’t have said so much anyway. Hates when his temper gets ahold of him like that. At least Hosea had the thought to step in.

“You feeling alright, old friend? You don’t look so-,” Dutch peers at Hosea’s face under the shadow of his hat.

“Oh, shut up. My days of looking good are long behind us. Now, are you going to come fishing with Arthur and I or not?” Hosea’s voice is so self assured, so uncaring of Dutch’s answer, it makes Arthur smile. Old man always knows just how to get under Dutch’s skin, how to make him change his tune quick as a shot.

Dutch leans away, nostrils flaring at the blatantly flippant tone, but with no hint of anger on his face anymore, the lines smoothed out of a crumpled photograph. “Well I don’t know, am I? You seem to know what’s going on a bit more than me.”

“Well sure I do. Arthur and I always go fishing on Thursday mornings. We’ve been doing this for near on fifteen years, and it’s not our fault you haven’t cared to pay attention. Let’s go, Arthur. We don’t need him anyway.” Hosea is lying, voice too high to be serious, and Arthur can only laugh under his breath when Dutch sputters, puts on the act Hosea knows he will.

“Hosea! Now it is not my fault that you both chose not to share this weekly ritual with me.” He follows after Hosea, toward the hitching posts. Arthur follows too, feels helpless not to.

“Course we haven’t shared it with you. It’s not real, you fool.” Hosea laughs, wheezes, and keeps on walking.

“I have never felt so deceived in all my days.” Dutch’s voice rumbles from deep under his shoulders, and he follows after Hosea just as he always has.

Any trepidation Arthur might have about riding out with them, two men that mean the world to him, falls away. None of the words really matter, not Dutch’s, not Arthur’s, not Old Man Cassidy’s; it just matters that they are both still here. So many years, dust brushed off of an old book.

They mount up and gallop into the trees. The Count tosses his head at first, ears pulled back against his skull, until Silver Dollar slows down to let him pass. Camp disappears behind them, hidden away by sticky huckleberry branches.

“Feels good to get out with you two. The old guard!” Dutch calls from the front, voice drifting thick and wet on the air.

“The curious couple and their unruly son.” Hosea’s words, a reminder of a time so long past, makes Arthur smile, sets his stomach bubbling with the warm bite of sarsaparilla root. Before anyone else, before John got tacked on, before Susan let Dutch’s charms tie her down, it was just them. Just Arthur and the two men that saved him from more than they might ever realize.

“You did a great job finding this spot for us, Arthur. Don’t know where we would be without you.” Dutch says, turns his head to peek at the back of the line, but Arthur keeps his head ducked down enough to hide his eyes, his ears blushing from the praise.

“Wouldn’t have found it without Charles.” He says it because the thought of keeping quiet about it makes his tongue want to crawl out of his mouth. All he did was make things difficult, yell like a trapped coyote caught bloody and terrified in a snare.

“It’s like I can breathe again. Thick and soupy as this air is.” Dutch turns back to the front, ignores him, waxes poetic about the backwoods they now find themselves in. Red clay baked into wagon tracks, the main road sitting languid now under their horses’ hooves. The shelter of the oak trees falls away and the sun simmers over them.

Arthur tunes him out, only catches himself listening when Hosea says, voice nearly lost in the hefty cattails of a creek they pass over, “I was with Bessie in this country. A long, long time ago.”

“You two tried to settle here?” Arthur asks, paying no mind to how Dutch falls silent.

“No, not really. Took work here and there to make ends meet for a while until we moved on. She liked the weather, but she couldn’t stand the people. Always got into fights with someone or another. Said they were too stuffy.” He chuckles, glances over to Arthur with a brightness in his eyes at the memory. “Had quite the temper on her, she did. Miss the way she used to just speak her mind, didn’t care what anyone thought of her.” The luster fades, and his face drops into something more wistful.

“Sorry to bring her up, Hosea.” Arthur grips tight at Rosie’s reins, wishes he hadn’t asked.

“Ah, it was a lifetime ago, Arthur. It’s alright. She’s always with me, just now I can’t hear her calling me a fool.” Another wheezing laugh, and the horses follow the curve of the main road north.

“It was a lifetime ago,” Dutch speaks up, wrangling the conversation back where he wants it, sweaty hands on steer horns. “And we need to remember the here and now, how we are going to come out of this better than we ever were before. Rustle up the money we need to go somewhere no one knows us, where we don’t have to hide.”

Arthur’s neck sweats. Fights the thought of how much money he has hidden away, how much he wants what Dutch is talking about, how this all might just work out if Dutch is thinking the same direction Arthur is. A place far from here, where they can all walk freely, stop running, live how they choose. _Save them_. A wisp of a dream he does not know how to reach.

“Still don’t understand how you expect us to get there after all these years. You’ve been talking about buying land long before my hair started going gray.” Hosea jokes again.

“I’ve got some ideas hatching. But I need you with me.” Dutch’s voice turns dry as hardpan and Arthur tugs at the bandana around his neck, tries to fight the sweat gathering at the back of his skull.

“Dutch, we need to be discreet. Finding money won’t be the problem. It’s when one of us pulls the trigger too fast that things spiral.” Silver Dollar drops back to gallop beside Rosie. The lake appears heavy and blue on the horizon, the air around them cool from it, but Arthur’s lungs still fight against the southern heat.

“I thought you’d be chomping at the bit for a chance to swindle some small-minded cotton families, old girl. This isn’t like you, Hosea.” Dutch is closer now, just one horse away, and the caution in his voice is too close.

Might regret this, but, “He’s got a point, Dutch. It’s only because of you and Micah that we had to run away from Blackwater in the first place. Hosea and I had a good thing going there that might have panned out real well.”

He expects anger, the hissing sting of a rattler’s fangs, but Dutch only sounds stern, a touch disconcerted. “Now Arthur, I realize things have been a bit rocky the past few weeks, but I need you with me if this is going to work. Need both of you with me, not against me.”

Arthur feels as though he is floundering, a fish brought up to the air, fins flapping desperate for water. Could tell them about his suspicions, how Micah might be more than just a thorn in their sides. How the Pinkertons keep finding them, how awful it feels to not know what Dutch is thinking. How awful it is to hear that fortune running through his mind over and over and to see the nightmares of things he knows really could happen. “It’s not that I’m against you, Dutch. I’m just worried. Feels like…like ever since Blackwater something has changed. I’m just saying-,”

“Don’t just _say_ Arthur. I-I really have been worried about you, son. Tell me what you need to. I-,” Dutch starts out with a shout, a sound that draws Arthur’s shoulders up to his ears, but then he sighs, heavy as a moose lumbering through swamp reeds. “I-I’ll listen.”

It sounds genuine, warm sunlight on a biting cold morning, and Arthur isn’t sure how much of that is real. Before, before all of this, he would have heard that tone of voice and known Dutch was being honest, achingly so. But now the worry that Arthur might be wrong, might be saying too much, wriggles around in his stomach like a bait worm caught on its hook. That voice, _the devil_, sounds so quiet in the wake of Dutch’s words, drifting away, silt in a river current.

They pass over rail tracks again, horse hooves clopping, and Hosea is hauntingly silent. A train whistles ahead, stopped on the track to let some cattle past, and there is a wagon waiting for a chance to move forward.

Arthur’s tongue turns fuzzy in his mouth, cottonwood seeds on the wind. Knows this might be a safe time to at least say something. “Was going to say something when I found out more, but…I’ve been having some doubts about Micah. He’s too hot headed for running with us, too cruel, and I’m starting to think he might be up to something more. Think he might be behind some of the jobs going wrong with the law lately.”

When he looks over to check Hosea’s face, there is a grim frown across his mouth, his eyes staying straight ahead. “That’s law up ahead. Prison wagon. Play it cool.” He says, tense, heavy. That, Arthur isn’t worried about quite so much. He knows Hosea lets things blow over if given enough time. He can get mad as hell, and often times he does, but he always calms, always comes around by the end.

Dutch is silent.

He pulls on the Count’s reins until the horses halt a few paces to the side of the prison wagon. The metal cage in the back of the wagon bed is loaded with prisoners, all of them scruffy and stinking up the air.

Arthur notices that much before he turns his head back down. Best to keep his eyes down right now. Best to not see whatever scowl must be brewing on Dutch’s face. Coffee grains, bitter and black at the bottom of a mug. Feels like a kid again, back when they first picked him up off the street and he mouthed off at Dutch over something he still cannot remember for the life of him. Something stupid and unnecessary, probably, just like this.

“Arthur,” Dutch starts, and Arthur feels as if his spine is about to snap, knows by the sound that Dutch has turned around to look at him. Too afraid to look up and not recognize those eyes again. “I am trying to see your side of things, I really am. And I…Well, well, well. Is that who I think it is?” His voice quiets by the end, and Arthur feels terrified to look up, but then he hears,

“Gentlemen. Good to see you. I believe I’ve gotten myself into spot of bother.” Of course, it’s Trelawney, cowering at the very back of the wagon and looking rather sorry for himself. Suit jacket torn, slicked hair dusty with dried mud.

“Well, let me see if I can sort this out then.” Dutch moves forward, close to the front of the wagon so he can start talking to the men driving. Law types, starch pressed cotton shirts, maybe half a brain between them considering the way they start falling for Dutch’s act.

Arthur keeps an eye on the prisoners, can’t help the smirk on his face when they keep picking at the lock, darting eyes over to them when they don’t raise an alarm. Hosea chuckles.

“Now, I’m sure we can work something out-,” Dutch trails off at the sound of the lock clinking open and falling to the dirt. The four prisoners rush to get out of the wagon, and while Arthur has seen professional drunks look more respectable, he salutes them anyway as they scramble out and on to the tracks, chasing the train caboose and climbing on to the back steps.

Some yelling Arthur pays little attention to, and then, “Well, allow me to help, my friend. Arthur.” Dutch waves his hand, calls out to him, and that is all it takes.

* * *

Arthur chases after the train, after the Anderson convicts, with that damn deputy riding behind him in the saddle and shouting the whole way. He jumps onto a moving train and fights the lot of them, earns himself a few bruises when he is too slow to dodge. Throws the last of them over the back of Rosie and rides past tobacco plantations dry as tinder. Of course, he does. Because Dutch told him to.

That roils around in his head as they ride back. A dog on a leash is all he is, ready to leap and bark the moment Dutch tells him to. Did not matter what was happening so long as Dutch asked it of him. Gestured at him and then turned away, knowing Arthur would leap in without a second thought.

“And this here is the Rhodes Parlor House. Very reputable saloon owned by the Gray family. We also have a general store, gunsmith-,” The deputy prattles on as they ride into Rhodes. He has been talking the whole way, seems he can’t shut up, and Arthur tries to pay attention. The information is dry, but it’s being given for free, and he knows Hosea and Dutch will expect something out of him once they get back. Would probably be useful for them to know more about the area, the town, these feuding families, if only he could calm the buzzing in his head and listen to half the words.

Rhodes is just as Arthur remembers it – red with dust and chipping paint, weeds growing thick in the street, drunks glaring from the shadows.

“Mr. Gray! We got him!” The deputy scrambles off his horse and shouts into the sheriff’s office. Arthur rolls his eyes as he gets down from the saddle, grabs the man off of Rosie’s rump and slings him over his shoulder.

When the sheriff nearly runs out of the doorway, pale hair and eyes sunken too far into the sockets, Arthur drops the prisoner onto the ground. The bruises blossoming at his cheek and nose twinge.

Dutch follows after the sheriff and smile. “I told you Arthur would deliver. The man has a passion for justice.” He sells it too far, and Arthur can hear from his tone that he realizes halfway through his sentence. Hosea, standing in the shade of the porch, rolls his eyes so hard they nearly roll back into his head.

“That is wonderful. Just wonderful.” But the sheriff does not notice, too caught up in the relief of having his job done well for him, most likely.

“Now, about my friend here…” Dutch says, gestures to Trelawney in a flash of gold rings in the lank southern sunlight.

“Yes, yes. Your idiot friend is free to go. But no more trouble from you, partner.” The sheriff waggles his finger at Trelawney before opening the cage. Arthur hopes Josiah manages to pickpocket the man as he gets out of the cage; wouldn’t be the first time he has seen the magician manage something like that.

“I promise you. This was all just a big misunderstanding.” Trelawney spouts as he steps out of the jail cage. “However, I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart.” Arthur tries to hide a snort of laughter into the elbow of his jacket.

“I will pretend to appreciate that. Now, Mr. Macintosh, it has been a real pleasure.” Sheriff Gray, skin a sickly, frail pale, shakes Dutch’s hand, “The mostly fine folks of Rhodes, we welcome you.”

“Well thank you very much. Rest assured, I will do my best to keep this fella on the straight and narrow.” Dutch grips a hand at Trelawney’s shoulder, steers him around and away from the sheriff’s office. Hosea steps down the ivy choked stairs and falls into step with Arthur as they head down the street.

“Come on back soon now.” Sheriff Gray calls after them before disappearing back into his office. Arthur’s nose curls with a near sneeze as the street dust rises up on the wind.

“I can’t thank you enough.” Trelawney points at Arthur, makes a point to look him in the eye under the shelter of his hat, and though genuine gratitude is a strange look on Josiah, Arthur can see it clear as day. He nods to him, glad when the magician nods back and turns away. Not that he doesn’t like Trelawney, but the man’s antics always turn into too much for him. Never a normal day when he’s around.

Josiah prattles on about what he has been up to, what he has heard, and Arthur only really starts listening when the talk turns to bounties. “I have missed you boys. I’ve heard about some bounties through a few agencies.” His tone is not worried per say, but Arthur feels his hands start to itch. If their bounties go up much more there won’t be any chance at lying low no matter what any of them want.

“There has been a price on my head for thirteen years, this is nothing new.” Dutch sounds unconcerned, as if news of his bounty is some mud to scrape off of his shoes.

They pass by the general store, and in the glare of its chipped white paint, Arthur remembers Sadie. _“I thought we were outlaws.”_ Misses the humor of her voice.

“Where did you hear this?” Hosea asks, old wrinkles around his eyes flaring red in the sunshine.

“Well, they’re good bounties. Heard them from some fellers I met at a camp near the state line. They said there was talk of you boys in every bar north and west for a good five hundred miles. There was talk of super agents or some such.”

A stone sinks in Arthur’s stomach, and when he glances over to Hosea there is a similar reaction on the old man’s face. Jowls drawn down and lips thinned. Thinking up a way for them to get out of this, again, just like always. He hopes.

Dutch shows none of this, scoffs and rolls his eyes, “Super agents. I’d love to meet one. It’s just talk.” He glances over to Arthur, meets his eyes, looking for the right reaction, before frowning and turning away.

Because all Arthur can think of is the glint of Milton’s badge on that Dakota riverbank, the weight of Ross aiming that rifle at him and Jack. _“Enjoy your fishing, kid. While you still can.” _He never wants to meet those men again if he can help it.

“I’m sure it is. But I couldn’t not tell you.” Trelawney turns to them, smiles and bows as though he is a performer and not a criminal like the rest of them. “Thank you, gentlemen.” He turns and starts walking toward a cluster of tents and shacks at the edge of town.

The moment he is out of ear shot, and the calm of the town’s atmosphere drapes over them again, “Arthur, you start sniffing around the Grays’ place, would you? See what you can find.” Dutch turns back toward the town, whistles sharp and loud for their horses. He gestures as if they are walking with him, as self-assured as a preening turkey. “And Hosea, you see what you can find out about these Braithwaites.” There isn’t much promise in Dutch’s voice, but Trelawney’s put him on the scent of gold, clear as day, and Arthur dreads what will come of that.

Hosea stands beside Arthur, pats a hand at his shoulder. His eyes squint through the raw sunlight in the town square. “Thank you, Arthur. I’m sorry you got pulled into that.” Warmth floods his insides, mulled wine in front of a fall campfire. The chill, the creeping ice, melting away. Nothing like this damned southern heat, sickly and hateful as only a dying town can be.

Dutch must notice they are not following him, because he stops and calls back to them, “Now that that’s done, what do you say we go fishing? Day is still young.” He smiles big, mustache lifting blackbird wings, his voice full of a laugh. Not a trace of anger, not a hint of suspicion after what Arthur said today. But he knows it’s there, lurking somewhere. Always is. Dutch never lets words go.

And that moment at the train tracks, _“Well, allow me to help, my friend. Arthur.” _was just like magic, a trick Trelawney uses to entertain everyone when he visits, a card pulled from a fancy suit sleeve. Dutch’s words, his laugh, that is all it ever takes to have Arthur chomping at the bit to help. And even now he knows he would do it again. Solid bedrock at the bottom of a grave. Anything for that smile, his approval, the _“Thank you, son.”_

But he didn’t even get that. Chased down criminals and nearly broke his nose, his neck, again, rode around with a deputy and met with a sheriff that could have recognized him at any moment. All to help Dutch. With not a hint of gratitude, thanks, a hand at his shoulder. Lets such a thing fall to Hosea rather than break down and say it himself.

“Still up for some fishing, Arthur?” Hosea asks as they walk toward the horses. The old man sounds calm, will be fine with whatever Arthur says expects so little of him. And though Arthur’s stomach curdles at the idea of being with Dutch for much longer, wants to run away from whatever consequences his words will bring him, he fears disappointing Hosea even more, of leaving him in this small way.

“Sure, why not.”

* * *

His stomach is in knots by the time they get out onto the water. No amount of joking about Trelawney, or about how dumb that Sheriff seemed, can get his mind off of what must be coming now that they’re on a stolen boat, lake water slapping. Fishing in a rowboat is a hell of a lot different from fishing on a riverbank; there is only so much space between them, and Dutch is so close, so difficult to brush off now.

The air sings with shining sunlight, glinting and screaming off the water. Sears into Arthur’s eyes when he keeps them turned down. Hides under his hat with more purpose than he has in a long time. Not like they are in camp where he can run away from this as long as he likes.

“C’mon, Arthur. Gotta keep your lure moving if you want to catch anything.” Hosea chides him, a bump of an elbow at his side. Still cheerful, trying to keep this approaching storm from making landfall.

“Fishing has never been his strong suit, Hosea.” Dutch muses, his own fishing rod darting out over the water. Cannot parse a damn thing from his voice.

“Dutch, you remember that time we sent Arthur out fishing? Couldn’t be more than twenty. He came back with those three beautiful bass?” Hosea’s voice, desperate in that light clinging way of feather grass seeds.

“Oh yes, I remember.”

The story falls flat, and in the ensuing silence, awkward and painful, Arthur recognizes what Hosea is trying to do, knows it will not work. Dutch won’t let it. Too bullheaded and sure for that. An elk charging with antlers ready to pierce.

“Arthur. I have been thinking on what you said today. About Micah. I really have. And I need you to know that I am taking this seriously. Not every day you of all people accuses someone of something like…that.” Dutch’s voice is calm, something Arthur does not expect, and he nearly misses when his fishing rod jerks down. He reels in a steelhead trout, glinting with speckled red scales. Still, glassy fish eyes. There are no congratulations, only Dutch continuing after a weighty breath. “I understand your misgivings, I do. Mr. Bell is certainly a strong personality to knit into our little group. Not so little anymore, I suppose.”

Arthur can tell by how Dutch sighs, shakes his head, stares out over the horizon in the direction of their little camp, darks of his eyes glinting with the sun, that though he is being honest about giving this thought, there will be no real change from this. Getting ready to put his foot down about it. Something about the set of his shoulders, the sure grip of his hand. Looked that way when he insisted they keep camping at Horseshoe, when he insisted Micah's riverboat scheme would come through, when he told Arthur that John would come back to them someday whether they wanted him to or not.

“You remember old Laurence, Arthur?”

“I do. I remember Portiere.” Arthur grumbles, knows exactly where the conversation will lead now. Wants to kick sand onto this fire.

Laurence Portiere, a Frenchman, a half decent shot and an even better trapper from Canada. Not the best at talking his way out of things, but he could pick any lock they put in front of him, kept them fed from his hunts, sang what he insisted were dirty French songs at the campfire. Standoffish, liked things just so, but not a bad fella to ride with. At least they had all thought as much.

“I brought him in because I felt I could trust his intentions, and, hell, I think we all felt the same. He saved Bill from those rapids and I thought he seemed like a decent sort. I remember you two got along alright.” Dutch is not lying. Portiere did save Bill’s dumb ass from drowning in some white-water rapids back in Wyoming, not knowing who he was and not demanding a reward, just cussing up a storm about greenhorns getting close to the falls. And Portiere was a good man to ride with, at least until the end, and that burns all the more bitter on Arthur’s tongue. Quite a few years ago, now, back before Jack was born, before John left.

“After a few weeks, though, I got a feeling that something wasn’t adding up. Stopped trusting what he said. Hard to ignore a feeling like that. Told Hosea, and we did our best to catch him at something.” Dutch shakes his head down at the lapping lake waves.

A fish bites at Arthur’s lure and he ignores the pull of it.

Hosea clears his throat. “You did. And I tried to keep a better eye out, but he was off with you boys so much there wasn’t a lot we could do. Still don’t know how he did it.”

A bluegill pulled out of the water on Dutch’s side, an empty hook thrown back out, “Him turning to the law, ratting us out…that was some awful business. And I take full responsibility for it. I do. I agreed with Bill to bring him into the fold, and when I started having my own doubts, I did not do near as much as I should have. Thankfully, we didn’t lose anyone when the law rushed into camp, but that is always something I kick myself for now, even eight years down the line. Was as much my fault as Portiere’s.” The admittance of a mistake is so unfamiliar coming out of Dutch’s mouth, usually so assured and confident. “And that is why I want to insist that I trust Micah’s intentions. I don’t expect everyone to get along well, but I must insist that I would not let him as close as I have if I did not trust him wholeheartedly. Hell, Arthur, you know me. I don’t let people close unless they deserve it, unless they earn it.”

Arthur cannot help but grimace down at his boots, at the dead fish staring up at him. He does know Dutch, still knows the man behind those dark eyes, he must, he has to. Some childish feeling writhing in his stomach that says he will always know Dutch, will always trust him, even if only a little. Maybe things have been changing, maybe Arthur has changed, and some of the things Dutch has said in the past few weeks have hurt worse than they should have, but Arthur knows the man does not do things lightly, does not decide on someone without good reason. His faith and his demands of them might singe sometimes, the burning scrape of sumac leaves, but Arthur cannot bring himself to think so little of Dutch, to think he would willingly let someone in who would only hurt them in the end. Even the man he has seen glimpses of would not do something like that. Would not.

“I know that I don’t have all the answers. That’s why I rely on you so much, you and Hosea, to steer me when I stray.”

That smoldering faith again. It makes Arthur’s nose wrinkle. “Dutch I…I hear what you are saying. Portiere was someone I trusted and that didn’t work out well for us. But something about Micah just rubs me the wrong way. The way he talks to folks…” Arthur hears his own voice, bristling and fragile cattail shoots. It isn’t that his suspicions are gone, or that he trusts Micah now, but it unsettles him to hear Dutch admit to all of this, to know Hosea backs him up on it, to know that these two who he has trusted for so long with so much have heard him and still judge things as being alright. Makes him wonder how many leaps he has taken with this and how far he has strayed.

He thinks back to all the reasons he thought he had, misgivings and a wariness that makes his instincts itch and squirm but cannot put words to it. No damning evidence, no sure thing. Just a mistrust he fears will one day prove true. Only whispers of fears.

Dutch laughs, that sound that makes Arthur’s lungs light up with fireflies. “I’ll be the first to admit his personality can be a bit, ah, abrasive, to be sure. But that does not change what he can bring to the table, especially right now. I stand by my choices, Arthur, you know I do, and I will stand by this one too.”

* * *

Rowing back to camp sets Arthur’s arms aching, but he is smiling all the while. They sing as he rows, and by the end of the chorus they are all wheezing with laughter. Hosea says some awful joke, as dry as he can make it, and Dutch snorts like a pig. Sitting between them, letting their laughter wash over him, it feels warm and sweet in his chest, peach preserves he and John used to steal from Pearson’s personal stash. Enough sugar to make his teeth ache.

The scrape of the rowboat striking land brings it all back down, and Dutch sits at the back of the boat, watching as Arthur hefts the oars and Hosea ties off the lines of fish they caught. “I think I…or well, I mean we,” A selfish slip-up that Arthur only rolls his eyes at, “Are going to be okay. I know. I always know. Whenever I got you two by my side. Things are going to be just fine.”

His confidence, and Hosea’s small smile, almost makes Arthur believe it, nearly makes him forget all the rest of this, _the path of the devil_.

Dutch finally stands, keeping his arms up to gesture to the sky and keep his balance in the wobbling boat. “This place will be good for us. For now, anyway.” His boots smack the mud, and his smile looks bright enough to spark. “You two go on ahead. I…I just want to take in this view.” Dutch sets his hands on his hips and looks out over the lake. Something about the set of his spine strikes Arthur as strange, but he does not dare ask. Does not dare pop this bubble of tender warmth.

Hosea rolls his eyes. Turns his back and starts hiking carefully up the muddy beach. “I’m going to take these up to Pearson.”

Arthur scrambles up after him, takes one of the snare lines and hefts it out of Hosea’s hands. Does not dare reach for the second one for fear of getting his offer of help smacked away. “Here, old man. I’ll take that.”

“Well thank you, Arthur.” Camp is a comfort to come back to, familiar tents and background chatter. The burr of horses and campfire smoke. Shortening his steps to match Hosea’s shorter gait.

Hosea’s smile dims, “You know, I like Bell as much as the next person, which is not at all.” Arthur coughs a small laugh, “But I trust that Dutch has our best interests in mind. And I trust that you do too. Dutch is right, Arthur - you've changed. For the better, I think. And I know the man in front of me wouldn’t say what he did without good reason.”

Another piece of magic, a dove bursting from a hat. _Change_. A flutter of feathers and surprise and a skip in Arthur’s heartbeat. A smile on his face, sweet like honeysuckle on the air. “That sure means a lot coming from you, old timer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: If you think I know what I’m doing, I’m gonna have to disappoint you.


	25. Swelter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t know why it took me so long to write a filler chapter, but here it is.

Arthur knows he isn’t the sharpest tack, never has been and never will be, but he still wishes he knew why the south has to be so damn hot. Sweat at the back of his neck, dripping down his spine to soak into his shirt, feels like it never ends. Baking during the day and a sweltering oven left over at night. The heat has boiled him out of his jacket, his vest, both packed away in his trunk now, and he tries to ignore how exposed he feels walking around without them, just a collared shirt. Has to keep it clean or Miss Grimshaw will descend upon him like a bat out of hell.

Riding down the road, fiery red clay under Rosie’s hooves, he pats his bandana to his forehead. The sun is sinking, sluggish as it pleases, but sunset is the only time he will bother riding further south. Too unbearable otherwise, even for running an errand like this one.

The gate of the Gray plantation swings open easily when Rosie bumps into the slats. A few men work in the tobacco fields, plants nearing knee height with wide, drooping leaves. Others guard the estate gates, the white columns and cobbled paths. Those guards, fingers gripped tight over their rifles and red dust caked into their clothes. Old scowls. “What’s your business here, boy?”

Arthur straightens his spine, tries to drudge up whatever face these men might let through, ignores the burr of being called a boy, “I helped the Sheriff with some trouble the other day, and he mentioned I should have a word with some of the folks on the property here.” Not a full lie, not a full truth, hell Dutch might have taught him something useful after all.

They squint at him, turn to each other. One spits into the dirt and grumbles "Damnit, Leigh." under his breath. “Well…fine. But we ain’t got the time to help you. Head over to the woodshed. Beau should be over there, and he certainly has the time to talk.”

Arthur ignores the low snicker one of them lets out, spurs Rosie forward and tips his hat to the air, “Obliged.” He feels more and more convinced the south is just a sort of hell. Sticky sweat during a thunderstorm, rumbling and glazing over his skin. Wishes he knew what must make all of these people stay here the way they do; must be a hell of a feeling that keeps them tied here.

He walks Rosie down the main path and dismounts near a tree, leaves her in the shade of it. His boots clack against the stone paths, pavers loose and uneven where age and weather have torn at them.

The urge to muck this up scratches at the edge of his mind. Such a bad feeling comes over him any time Dutch mentions these families, as if it is a good idea to shove their noses into a blood feud. Gang fights are one thing, a familiar headspace, but families like the Grays and the Braithwaites seem like the types to not care who gets caught in the crossfire. An old, dusty sort of anger.

The hedges are well trimmed, the grass shorn short and green. Makes him feel a strange sort of jittery. Not used to so much order. All the buildings he passes are old, weathered, red brick, red clay, parched sandstone. There is history here tucked behind the windows and between the stones. Watchful.

He sees a young man near one of the sheds, leaning with his back against the wall, writing in a book held close to his chest. Arthur swallows down his nerves, or does his best to, before he calls out, “Excuse me. Are you Beau Gray?”

A quick turn of shoulders, no pistol to reach for, and Arthur rolls his eyes, realizes they sent him to talk to a Gray not much older than Lenny. Even without his age to contend with, there is no trace of fear at meeting a stranger on the plantation grounds, no awareness of his surroundings really. The book closes with a snap and Arthur catches a glimpse of a sketch on the page, a woman maybe.

“Why yes I am. Beau Gray. Pleasure to meet you, friend.” The young man’s teeth are too bright, sticking out too far from his face. Eyes sunken into the hollows of his skull.

“Friend? Well, I’m honored. Arthur Morgan.” Arthur says, fumbling and trying to salvage this. Sticks his hand out for a shake. He needs to speak with the head of the Gray family, not some kid who never leaves the property.

Beau tucks the book under his arm, watching Arthur with eyes a touch too intense for his liking. His handshake is surprisingly firm, but clammy. “Not yet. But here’s hoping.”

“I guess.”

Another shrewd look, and Beau peeks around the corner of the shed to the main house. Looks back with a smile on his face. “We don’t get a lot of travelling folks around here. And now, all of a sudden, there’s a flock of helpful yankees around town.”

“Is there?”

The smile fades, turns serious. “What are you doing here?”

“Just looking for work.” Only here on Dutch’s orders. If it went Arthur’s way, they wouldn’t be having anything to do with either one of these families. Robbing stagecoaches and banks has always worked just fine for them. This, it makes him fearful of every step he takes.

“Well, looking for _something_.” Beau’s smile brightens, a look in his eye like when a cat sees a rabbit poke its head out of a burrow. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

A burp of burning fear rolls up Arthur’s throat, and he swallows it down. Has quite a few secrets to choose from. Sniffing around for gold is one of the lesser ones. “Don’t know what secret you’re talking about. Just looking for some work with your family.”

“Oh, I am sure you are. Don’t worry; I have my own secrets, and I don’t care if you kill the lot of us, or the Braithwaites.” The smile is gone from Beau’s face. In its place is a faraway stare over Arthur’s shoulder that makes his shoulders start sweating.

“I don’t want to kill anyone.” He really doesn’t. No matter what the law paints him as, no matter how high his bounty gets, he never wants to.

“Penelope is the one I love in all of this. But it’s impossible.”

Arthur is not sure where he meant this conversation to go, what he could gain from this, and the sun is still setting toward the horizon slow as it pleases. Wishes it would set already so he could leave and write the Grays off. Dutch would be pissed, but that wouldn’t be too bad. At least that is what he tells himself. “Well, love can be complicated.”

“That’s just it! She’s a Braithwaite! And I’m a Gray! Son of Tavish Gray, nephew of Sheriff Gray, grandson of old Murdo Gray. We Grays have been murdering Braithwaites for so long no one can quite explain why. Nothing to be loyal to but ignorance and nonsense. But Penelope, she’s amazing. She’s…like tomorrow, if tomorrow turns out fine.” Beau’s voice rises and falls, drifts into a mumbled feeling Arthur remembers from chasing after Mary. Seeing someone as so beautiful, so perfect, compared to himself. Drunk on a harsh sort of love.

Arthur glances around them, to the yawning windows of the main house. “You know, kid, if you’re trying to keep her a secret, maybe lower your voice a bit.” He rolls his eyes in the next moment, has no idea why he is bothering. “I’m sorry for your predicament, kid.”

“Will you help?” Beau’s fingers clutch at his book with harsh, pale fingertips.

“I really am here to see about work with your family, Beau. I understand your problem – trust me, I do – but I’m aiming to stay out of this family feud as best I can.” Arthur takes a step back from him. Takes a step away from this mirror of himself from so many years ago. The fool with stars in his eyes and a heart only standing to get hurt.

A hesitant step forward, an outstretched hand pulled back. “I’ll pay! We Grays may not have much in the way of brains, but we have money. I understand the hesitation, and I know it is a lot to ask, but…”

It must be the desperate, glazed look in the kid’s eyes that has Arthur heaving out a sigh. Would be easier to just walk off. But, “Hell, alright. What do you need?”

“Oh, thank you, sir! Thank you, friend.” Beau scrambles to open his book again, taking out a sealed envelope. He fishes around in his pants pocket and pulls out a small jewelry box. “Could you please deliver these to her? Penelope Braithwaite. She usually sits in the gazebo on the lake shore around this time. You’ll have to sneak onto the property; their guards are worse than ours.”

Arthur takes the letter, the box, mute in the face of the hope in Beau’s eyes. A lit up smile, so uncaring of the danger this might put him in, of what these families might do should they find out.

He wishes he had the spine to tell the kid no, to tell him what Arthur wishes someone had told him all those years ago. Only risking hurt with this.

* * *

The Braithwaite property sure is imposing. Massive trees lining the front path, the balconies and white pillars of the house. Glass windows beginning to glow yellow with oil lamps as the sunset settles down.

But Arthur ignores the house and its staring eyes. A problem for another day. Hosea will probably start bugging him soon about when they should ride there, have a meeting with this family and see what is what. A problem to be dealt with by his future self. For now, he creeps along the lake shore, boots sinking deep into the mud with each step.

He wonders what he’s doing, sneaking onto enemy property to deliver a damn letter, wonders why he’s doing it, for the eighth or tenth time, but he keeps circling back to the look on Beau’s face, a blinding smile because he suddenly had hope of getting a letter to his girl. Arthur remembers that feeling, though it is dusty and frail. Years old and not very happy. Back when he and Mary still sent letters back and forth to each other, before the law truly cared about the gang’s movements and before her father ever cared to intervene. Arthur would rush to the nearest post office after they traveled for long stretches, send off a letter of his own and wait for a reply. Some news he could share of where they were, try to put into words how much he missed her, small sketches he fought hard to not chicken out of sending. It would take a few weeks for the mail to catch up, but once it did, she would send pages smelling of rose perfume, soft words in her messy script.

Hosea fretted over it but Dutch always called it harmless. Always hurt Arthur when the gang had to move in a hurry, no chance to send word to her, no telling how many letters were lost in those times. Looking back, he cannot decide whether he regrets it or not. All those words put to paper.

The lake shore bull frogs belch at him as he moves along, spies a gazebo in the murky twilight. Any light comes from the horizon, from the thick strokes of pink and hazing purple left by the setting sun. There is a light glowing under the gazebo roof, a flickering lantern, but it lets him see a young woman sitting there, book propped up and oblivious to him crouched a few feet away.

He heaves a breath, shakes his neck out, and stands from his crouch to walk over to the stairs. Any worries about scaring the poor girl fly out his ears when she looks up, spots him, and only smiles. She and Beau sure are a pair. “Miss, would you happen to be Penelope Braithwaite?” He lowers his voice, tries to hunch his shoulder and not look as big and imposing as he knows he is.

“Why yes, I am.” Pretty, blonde, blue eyes, a voice as gentle as forget-me-nots poking up through tall grass.

“Well, I have a letter and a gift for you, Miss.” He fishes around in his satchel for the jewelry box and envelope, thanks his lucky stars when no loose bullets or knives come falling out with them.

“Why, sir, we don’t even hardly know each other.” She snipes back but does not move, does not look even the slightest bit tensed that a stranger has approached her in the twilit dark. Either she really is as oblivious as she seems, or she could kill him with her bare hands if he gave her cause to. Not sure which is scarier.

“Oh, they’re not from me. They are from a Mr…” He trails off, sees the spark of recognition in her eyes.

“From Beau?” Penelope gasps, “He is so…” She does not finish her sentence, too caught up in taking the letter from him and ripping the envelope open.

Arthur bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep from saying _stupid_. “Strange?”

Penelope looks up at him, holding his gaze for a moment before he ducks his head down to look at the floorboards. “Yes…I suppose he is rather strange. But so human. The rest of our families are stuck in the dark ages, or… are more like cave people, really.” She sets the letter aside and reaches for a pitcher sitting on the table, pours a drink from a short stack of cups on a silver tray. As she hands him the glass, Arthur tries not to think of how much money he could get by selling the silver tray, maybe twenty dollars, twenty five if he talks it up like Hosea always tends to do.

“Care to sit for a spell? Least I can do to repay you for your help.” Her voice is too kind, and Arthur finds himself shrugging, sitting down in one of the chairs beside her. “Beau is different. But if our families find out they’ll kill him. And then they’d ship me off to live someplace awful up north, like Ohio.”

Arthur sips his drink, sweet on his tongue, and stares around him at this structure, a gazebo Beau called it. Thought there might be a bit more to it. Does nothing to keep out the wind, or the bugs, and the slats in the sideboards would make for awful cover in a firefight.

“Families are something else. You got a family, sir? Oh, gosh, and where are my manners. May I ask your name?”

Arthur hesitates a moment, over both questions if he has to be honest. “Arthur Morgan, miss. And I…do. Of a sort.” He knows they are not the traditional ideal of a family, but he cannot think about camp without thinking of that word. Hosea’s rasping laugh and the strum of Javier’s guitar, John’s tent within eyesight, Tilly’s hum as she hangs up the washing to dry, even Dutch’s callous words, it all feels like family. Feels wrong to call it anything else.

“Well, my family only tolerates my cousin up north because he made money for himself. But me and these ideas above my station? They can’t stand it. And I…I really do love him.” Her voice quiets. “Mr. Morgan…have you ever hidden something from your family, of a sort?”

When Arthur glances over, Penelope does not meet his eyes, and he appreciates the small kindness. Does not know where all these words are coming from, confiding this in a girl he has just met. “I…have. Was for their own good. Safer for them not to know. And…safer for me.” He forces those last words out, refuses to let himself think about the money he has stashed away, about the people he has lost in this life and how much of them he keeps hidden even now. Looks down into his glass because that is easier than seeing this young girl throw herself onto the thorn of heartache that has only ever stung him.

_Meeting a cloud of rose perfume and tear stained handkerchiefs in a train station. “Oh, Arthur. You know I care for you. I do. But you won’t change, and I must think of my family, of my father. We can’t be together. I won’t follow you into this life.”_

Penelope sips at her drink, stares at where the lantern sits on the table collecting moth flutters. “I can’t help but think the same of mine. Safer for Beau and me. And my mother, of course she would never understand. Her heart might not be able to take it if I told her.”

_"I have to think about our son, Arthur. It isn’t about us. I won’t let him be a part of that life.” Never told anyone about them except Dutch and Hosea, both swore they would never tell a soul._

Bullfrogs croak from the lake mud. “Pardon me. It was thoughtless of me to ask such a personal question. Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Morgan.”

_“Thank you, Arthur. Your sketches really are beautiful.” Warm hands and dark eyes that Arthur knows he does not deserve, should not look into and want to drown, does not want does not want does not want. Feels a curl of slimy fear press down on his tongue, should only think of Mary that way, to make him gag on those words._

In a fit of panic, a bullet burning into the flesh of his stomach, Arthur scrambles for him, for that man he used to be, before _change_ and so much else. Anger, strength, the bitter burn of whiskey down a raw throat. Feels around for the ragged, hard edges of him, wants him to sneer at Penelope’s kindness, take her letter and threaten the secret of her and Beau’s relationship, spit on the hearts both of them wear on their sleeves. Forget about Eliza and Isaac and Mary, hearts he lost because of how much of a bastard he is. Forget about _Charles_ because that is something he should never have because it wouldn't be _right_.

But that part of Arthur is gone. After all of this. That man is not there where Arthur expects to find him. No roar of a furnace in his gullet, pipes thick with coal soot. Replaced with that little sprout of hope in his chest, not so little anymore, too rooted to pull up.

Doesn’t know if he should feel happy about that. Just feels fear at what this means, not being able to go back. _You must save them so they may save you._ But he knows what going back would mean. Would mean the end, the death, of his little family.

Arthur coughs, knows he has kept Penelope in silence for too long. “Don’t worry yourself, miss. My skin is thick enough to take a couple questions. Now, if I were you, I’d keep this a secret until I was ready to leave.” He sets his drink on the tray and stands up. Needs to be away from the shining white wood of this gazebo, the hope in Penelope’s eyes.

“Leave? Whatever do you mean?” As he starts to leave, she scrambles for the book on the table, unwraps the front cover to reveal an envelope hidden inside.

“What I mean is that this secret of yours isn’t going to last forever, Miss. And when your families find out you already know what will happen. You two ought to consider getting out of here, away from your families. Travel north and start anew.” Arthur says it with as much conviction as he can muster; it’s been a long and hot day and he just wants to sleep. Wants to sneak back along the lakeshore and ride back to camp, pass out under his lean-to and not ride back to the Gray property until late morning.

His words set sparks shining in Penelope’s eyes, ideas and dreams taking shape. Marston gets the same look when he’s about to lasso and break a wild horse. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan. You are too kind. If you see Beau again, could you please give this letter to him?”

“Sure.”

* * *

Even in all the years he’s been travelling, Arthur marvels at the things in this world that can still surprise him. Never seen so many angry women all at once. Not that he has ever wanted to see this many. He remembers the yelling spats Dutch and Annabelle used to have, and he’s heard Abigail holler at John a few times, and Miss Grimshaw can be a force of nature, but nothing like this. These women are angry, not at any one person but at the world, at the lot men have put on their lives. Their signs call for voting rights, paint glaring and bright in the summer heat.

“Mr. Morgan. Please, do something.” Beau pleads from the sidelines. Penelope is there in the crowd, and she smiles to him, but she does not move from her spot.

“Do what? Fight this mob?” He stares out over the crowd of women, at their signs and their steel cut eyes. Angry fists and pursing lips from holding their tongues for so many years. “They’d eat me alive.”

“Oh, I just know this is a terrible idea.” Beau runs a frantic hand through his hair, too-large eyes made wider by panic.

“Kid, I hate to tell you, but I don’t think they much care what you think of all this.” Arthur shifts his weight back onto his heels and waits. He will get roped into this; he knows it just as well as he knows bullets hurt. Whether he rides along with them, or stands guard, hell they might ask him to drive the wagon. But now, seeing the way Penelope and Beau look at each other, even with all the stifling anger in the air here, he doesn’t see much use in walking away. Would rather be a part of this than wonder about what might become of them. He wonders if he and Mary looked like this all those years ago. The thorns stung him, but that’s his lot in life, doesn’t have to be theirs.

Never paid much attention to voting rights, being an outlaw and all. Supposes he can change that today without much fuss.

* * *

Once the sounds of the protest fades behind them, they travel back to the Gray property in silence along roads dusty with the afternoon. Arthur leads them in a few loops to lose anyone that might be tailing them from town, though he made sure Beau got away before his cousins could see him. Past the bayous to the north east and along the farm fences scattered across the western meadows. Not that Beau seems to notice. The kid stares into his horse’s whithers, clenches his fists too hard on the reins. Thinking himself into a lather, most likely.

It takes a while, hoofprints deep in mud, before Beau finally says, “You should’ve-,”

“Should’ve what? Let you get seen there? That would’ve ended well. We’re lucky Penelope warned me to get you away from there when she did. Should I have started a fight with them? Because that’s all the excuse they would’ve needed to start firing on that crowd.” Arthur knows Beau is not thinking straight under the heavy weight of the woman he loves being in danger, but that does not mean he is going to flinch from talking sense into the kid. It’s hotter than hell out today, and Arthur swipes his bandana across the back of his neck. The sweat just keeps rolling.

“I just…I just wish things could be different, Mr. Morgan.” Beau’s voice shifts pitch, lowers. “No one can know about us, we have to hide it, and I wish I didn’t have to keep the love of my life a secret.”

Arthur cannot help but roll his eyes high to the sky. Such a thick, heavy blue. “Everyone knows about you and Penelope, Beau. I know about you two and I’ve only been here in the south a week now.” They are riding closer to the Gray plantation and Arthur knows time is short. “Look kid, I said this to Penelope when I gave her that letter – I think you two need to consider getting out. Leave and go somewhere you two won’t get killed over this.”

“Leave? But I…I’ve never been further than Saint Denis. W-where would we go? And how?” Beau isn’t denying the idea, not really. Arthur can hear the hope in his voice hidden under all the fear.

_Leave_, the little sprout of hope that won’t leave Arthur alone. It whispers in his stomach, as quiet and insistent as the gurgle of hunger when they were up in Colter. Arthur does his best to ignore that little plant and all it means; this, today, is not about him, and he will not think on it further, will not consider his family and the danger they are in. Will not think of who he would want to leave the outlaw life for, who he would not want to keep a secret from the world. Isn’t supposed to want that with, _Warm hands and dark eyes. “I’m with you, Arthur.”_

He swallows what threatens to choke him, nods to Beau as they pass through one of the property gates. No guards stationed at this one, but a worn dirt path skirting the fence that suggests patrols along the property line. “Yes, leave. If you really love her then you ought to take her out of this. Go make a life for yourselves.” Mumbles of memories from his own past, Mary telling him they could run away together, leave her family and the gang behind, never look back.

Tobacco plants flap in the lazy wind on either side of them, the ground parched enough to let up clouds of red dust. “I’ve no idea where we would even start. And with what money, Mr. Morgan? We would have nothing but the clothes on our backs.” Beau’s words move as fast as a fleeing jackrabbit.

“You said your family had money. That’s what you said when you agreed to _pay me _for this.” Arthur grumbles. No matter how much of a mirror Beau’s situation might be, this is still a job.

“And I will pay you. You have my word.” They approach the Gray stable, darkness from the noonday sun thick under the overhangs. Arthur can feel the cling of sweat against his lower back and in the crook of his elbows. Hates the heat. “Well, my family has money, but I don’t. I have more of an artistic temperament, so they keep me out of the discussions. My father just tells me to check the fence lines sometimes, run supplies in an out of town, keep a few of the horses, but that’s it.” Beau dismounts from his horse, starts digging into one of the saddle bags.

Arthur dismounts from Rosie, saunters around to hover over Beau’s shoulder, more for the stupid fun of making the kid sweat than anything. “Well then maybe you ought to get in with your family a bit more. Couldn’t hurt.”

Beau sighs, turns, and hands over a clump of folded bills. “I suppose not. I don’t think they suspect much of anything…or maybe they do. But I suppose I ought to give that a try.” He smiles with his teeth sticking forward too far.

The money is cold to the touch when Arthur takes it and tucks it away into his satchel. Not as much as he could have gotten by spending his time robbing, but it’s something. He thinks of not taking it, insisting Beau keep what he’s got, but that is a quiet thought and it dissipates on its own.

Someone is walking toward them from the main house, a man with quick, heavy steps, wearing suspenders and a brimmed hat, and though Beau seems completely unaware of him, Arthur’s shoulders tense. That walk means business, means a loaded gun and low patience. Sometimes Dutch has that walk when someone royally ticks him off, but it’s usually the walk of sheriffs and other law, self-assured and ready to shoot at the slightest hint of a snake.

“Thank you, sir. I-,” Beau goes to shake his hand, grip firm and clammy as ever, and Arthur adjusts his feet to face the man approaching. Never ends well for him when he leaves a predator in the corner of his eye.

Graying mustache drooping over the mouth, suspenders, boots caked with mud. Chips of blue ice for eyes. A barking voice that has Beau flinching. Might be the head of the Gray family, or just the stablemaster, for all Arthur knows. “Beau, who is this? You one of those yankees making trouble in town?”

Arthur pulls at every thread of crooked con-artist Hosea and Dutch have tried to weave over top of him, pulls them together to try and fix this. “Arthur Callahan, sir. I came by at the suggestion of Sheriff Gray in Rhodes. Said y’all might have some work for me seeing as I helped him with a bit of trouble in town.” He sticks his hand out to shake, wills his spine to stay straight, for his hands to still and not shake with nerves.

The man stares into Arthur’s eyes, looks so steady he probably wouldn’t flinch if it was a bear staring him down. But he must see something, because he grasps ahold of Arthur’s hand, gives a hearty shake that is tough and calloused and overshadows Beau’s by a landslide. For all the dirt on his boots there is not a trace of grime on his hands. “Tavish Gray.”

“Good to meet you sir.” He’s not sure whether Tavish is the head of the family, or if Beau’s grandfather might still have that position, but he knows deep in his bones that this is a good connection to make. Might save his ass later.

Beau does not mention Arthur’s change of last name, a small miracle, “I rode out and checked the fences along the north side, sir. Brought Mr. Callahan along with me to see how he did.”

“And?” Gray turns to Beau, all heavy shoulders and heavier gaze.

Beau, thankfully, can at least lie well. “The fences are fine, father. We, ah, did have a run in with some Raiders, but Arthur handled things quite well. I’ve already paid him for his help.” Quite the liar, then.

Tavish clears his throat and spits into the dirt, “Damn raiders are ruining this county. Used to stand up for what was right. Now they just cause trouble.” He stares at Beau for a moment, a tensed cougar ready to pounce, before he turns back to Arthur. “If you’re looking for honest work, I already have enough field hands.”

Arthur tilts his head to hide his eyes from the sun. “I understand, sir. Honest or not, I’ve never been a man to pass up on work.”

Tavish’s pale eyes drive into him, a chisel through stone. “Don’t have anything like that for you now either but come back and see me in a week or two. And if I hear you yankees have been causing trouble…” His scowl is similar to Dutch’s, and Arthur feels the tension ease under the weight of such a familiar stare.

“No, sir. My fellows and I are itinerant workers from up north. They shut down our factory without warning and we’ve been wandering ever since.” A lie crafted by Hosea, so of course it works well.

Tavish nods, solemn. “Damn shame. Places like that are just another part of what is ruining this great country.”

“Yes, sir.” Arthur agrees without thought. Doesn't matter much to him what Gray thinks, so long as he has something to bring back to Hosea and Dutch. Might not be the lead they are hoping for, but at least it might be something.

Tavish nods and turns away from him, as much dismissal as he cares to give. “Come along now, Beau. I’m sure Mr. Callahan can see himself out.” Tavish turns and starts walking toward the main house. Though he does not check to see if Beau is following, the kid scrambles to.

“Thank you, Mr. Callahan. I hope to see you again soon.”

Arthur feels himself smile, hopes the kid will take his advice, at the very least so he doesn’t have to see such a copy of himself. “Just stay out of trouble, kid. And think on what I said.”

Beau’s face stutters before he nods. “Oh, I will. Most definitely. Thank you, friend.”

Arthur waves a hand at him and starts walking back to Rosie. He lifts his hat and wipes the back of his hand across his brow, grimaces at the wet slide of sweat. Almost wishes, but not really, that the Pinkertons could just find their new camp and make them move again. Anything to get away from this sweltering, burning heat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Pride month y'all! Don't forget to love each other, and I hope you feel loved and supported this month and all the other months too. You are valid. You are beautiful.


	26. Stew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Mentions of past domestic abuse.

Sitting at the edge of the horse herd, watching the sunlight fade toward sunset, a hand grabs at the back of Kieran’s neck and he nearly pisses himself in fear. He scrambles forward, away, anywhere but under that hand. Heart thumping against the cage of his ribs, blood rushing through his ears. Mud seeps into the knees of his pants as he falls forward. He knows he has done nothing wrong today but that never makes a difference maybe he looked at Javier wrong somehow or maybe he got in Bill’s way or maybe Dutch finally decided to just-,

“Easy! Easy, O’Driscoll. Just old’ Sean MacGuire saying hello.” It is Sean, who backs up a step and holds his hands up in the air, making a show of not touching Kieran after that display. Sean, the Irishman that has been largely ignoring Kieran so far. Well, except yesterday when he tripped Kieran to make him trip over a tree branch and into some lake mud. Or the other day when he walked out from behind a tree and acted as if he didn’t mean to scare the hell out of Kieran. Or all the other times he has scared him or teased him or insulted him. It isn’t that Sean has been ignoring him, more that he doesn’t follow through on his threats, has yet to pull a knife or a gun or those gelding tongs. No idea why a gang of outlaws even has those on hand.

“I-I…I’m sorry I didn’t – I,” Kieran stands up slowly, brushing mud and grass from the knees of his pants. So stupid to panic like that. So stupid. His ears feel like they are on fire.

“Relax, O’Driscoll. Ain’t gonna touch a hair on your pretty little head.” Sean’s smile is not terribly reassuring, but at this point, Kieran thinks he ought to take what he can get. “Came over to see why you haven’t come running for Pearson’s dinner bell.”

“Oh, I-I didn’t realize it was that time already.” The excuse feels lame in Kieran’s mouth, a horse struggling to walk with a limp.

The lie does not work on Sean, his face as expectant as before. “Well you ought to. You look like nothing but skin and bones.” His stance settles into something serious, his hands holding on to his belt. If he was a few feet taller he might even look a bit like Arthur.

“R-right.” Kieran stands, glad his legs aren’t shaking, but he stumbles when Sean slaps a hand at his shoulder. This time the hand does not leave, and it steers him around toward the center of camp.

“C’mon then. We’ll eat supper and have us a little chat. Ain’t had a chance to talk yet, you and I. Been a rough couple of weeks, eh?” Sean all but marches Kieran forward. He wonders if this is what a hooked fish feels like, struggling against the pull of the line for so long, but then growing tired enough to let himself be strung along. At least that is what this feels like, what all of this feels like; stringing himself along with another gang until the fishing line ends.

The rest is a blur that Kieran takes little part in. Sean steers him around camp, leading him like a lame horse, chattering the whole time. Past Pearson’s campfire and the bubbling soup pot. A bowl appears in his hands, hot to the touch and steaming, heavy with dark broth and herbs, potatoes and onions and the gamey stink of elk. His stomach roars.

There is no hand on his shoulder now, and Kieran looks up to see Sean walking away, “Come sit by the fire with us a spell. Promise we won’t bite.” Sean smiles, waves his hand in the air as if he cannot speak without that movement to help his words along. “Or, well, I promise. Can’t speak for scary Mr. Summers here.”

“Oh, shut up, Sean.” Lenny Summers, kinder than some folks in camp but colder than others too, sits on one of the folding chairs around the fire. Not the main fire in the center of camp but the smaller one on the north side. Just the three of them, then.

Kieran wants to sit with them. That is the sad part. He wants to sit there in the firelight with them and not feel afraid. Maybe have a laugh at someone else’s expense. He has no idea what brought this on, what is making Sean change his tune so quick, but who is Kieran to argue? Maybe this is a chance for him to integrate himself into the gang, expand the circle of people who don’t glare at him so much anymore.

Or maybe it’s another ploy to get him to fall in the mud again, spill his dinner and be a laughingstock.

Kieran knows what those tricks look like, knows the cruelty behind them, and he cannot see it in Sean right now. He isn’t sure what got into the man, but it sure isn’t that. And Lenny looks as though he has no idea what is going on either.

“Hey, Kieran. Take a seat.” Lenny’s eyes are not unkind, just watchful. He turns his attention back to his food once Kieran and Sean sit down.

“My friend Mr. Summers here told me a bit about how you came to join this lovely family of ours. Roped in the snow by the one and only Arthur Morgan, eh? What an honor.”

“Uh-uh yeah I guess…didn’t feel like it when it was happening.” Kieran winces, but he knows it’s best not to lie. Arthur might be nicer now, but he was a cold-hearted bastard that day. And most of the days after that, too.

“Knocked you on your ass, did he? Lassoed you like a summer heifer? We can’t all be so lucky.” Sean laughs to himself.

“If he says something that isn’t funny you don’t have to laugh, Kieran. In fact, just don’t laugh. No need to encourage him.” Lenny chuckles, voice cold but with a smirk on his face.

Kieran smiles back to him and turns his eyes down, focuses on drinking down his soup, doesn’t think these two will fight or argue or anything but that doesn’t mean they won’t. The elk meat is tender, the carrots soft, and he tries to eat slowly, tries to not scarf it down. It sure is nice having a camp cook in this group, even if Kieran doesn’t always get the privilege of eating Pearson’s cooking. Better than eating canned beans and unseasoned jackrabbit full of buckshot back with the O’Driscolls.

“Yeah, what a good friend you are, Summers.” Sean says, uses his spoon to point at Lenny.

Kieran cannot help but smile at their joking. It’s good to hear people being nice to each other in this group, and hell at least this wasn’t entirely at his expense. That was all it was back with the O’Driscoll’s – arguing and fist-fights and humiliating jokes and nothing nice about it.

“So, how do you like travelling with us so far, eh, O’Driscoll? Sure, it ain’t all sunshine and daisies, but it must be better than yakking around with those ugly, green bastards.” Sean slurps soup off his spoon loudly like a child. Kieran wonders if Sean sits over here to eat to avoid the wrath of Miss Grimshaw over his lack of manners.

“I ain’t an O’Driscoll.” Kieran reminds himself not to yell, to let the anger out in the harsh breath that steams out his nose rather than with his words.

“Sure, you aren’t.” Sean’s eyes roll back in his head. The tone of his voice is for coddling a child.

“I ain’t an O’Driscoll. I don’t want nothing to do with Colm and all of them. They ain’t- I ain’t one of th-,” Kieran stops, choking on air.

Sean and Lenny sit in the silence afterwards, heavy as a dead horse, until, “It’s ‘Colom’, you know. In Ireland we say ‘Colom.” Sean pronounces Colm’s name in the traditional way, voice curving around syllables the way Kieran’s da used to talk. There is a pause, and Kieran worries he is going to need to flinch away from Sean’s rising voice and temper, but, “Lord above, that dumb Irish bastard can’t even pronounce his own name. Thick headed plank.”

Kieran sighs, too tired to argue, to insist that how Colm says his name doesn’t matter at all. Just slurps up the last of his stew and sets the bowl by his feet. Lets the fishing line reel him in, deadweight on the end of the hook.

“So…tell us what he’s like, this ‘Colom’, or whatever he calls himself anyway?”

“Honestly?”

“Yeah, honestly.”

Kieran looks up at the night sky, the stars, but those pinpricks of light just feel like eyes leering down at him. “He’s, uh…When he talks to you, at least when he’s being nice, it’s like the sun is shining. Everything is fine and dandy and nothing could go wrong, you know? I mean I wasn’t with them for very long, only for a couple of months, and he only spoke to me a few times. But when a job went well and he was happy about it, he’d say it, y’know?”

The fire crackles and from the expressions on their faces, Sean and Lenny are both listening closely to what he says. No outbursts about how awful Colm is, or how Kieran must be an O’Driscoll if he talks about Colm like this. But that could just be in the works, a spark on a dynamite fuse.

He draws a quick breath into his lungs, fills them up to start talking about the other part of it. The part that still haunts Kieran’s dreams and nerves. “But then when he’s mad, like when someone screws up a robbing or things don’t work out his way it’s…it’s like the devil is gonna come out of the ground. That’s how I always thought of it. The sun goes away. Because he…he changes. It’s always real quick. One moment he’s fair and happy, and you’re happy too. He says you did a good job and you feel like you really did.” It isn’t that talking about this is making him nervous, because he doesn’t fear Sean or Lenny doing anything at this point, not really, but it makes him feel small. Makes his ribs curl in closer and his shoulders tuck down.

“But when he’s mad…When he gets angry, upset, so do you, and you don’t know why. He’s unkind…and not fair. I seen him shoot fellas that made him mad, part of the gang or not. He just didn’t…care.” For all the insults and threats that have been hurled at him the past month, Kieran knows deep in his bones that Dutch, Hosea, Arthur, the big faces of this gang, care. They may not say it, and it might not always show, but them being the way they are says it all. “But so long as all of that anger isn’t directed at you, hell, you don’t care. And he tells you that, says if someone screws up then that’s their lot. Says they get what they deserve. He…he changes you, turns men into monsters. Somehow. I never could see it all the way. But some of those guys…they take up his name and the green bandana and they love him, only him. Makes them do what he says no matter what.”

He hangs his head, refuses to look up, refuses to see the disgust, the pity in their eyes. Talking about this feels like vomiting up sickness. “He…he scares me. Even now he scares me. I mean, you boys scare me too but…you’re still human beings. And you ain’t treated me _that _bad compared to what he would’ve done if…He’s…it’s hard to explain.”

Sean’s hands, only in the corner of Kieran’s vision, are shaking as he pulls a cigarette out of his jacket pocket. He leans forward to light it in the campfire flames, not bothering with a match.

“He ever get like that with you?” Lenny asks, voice as clear as lake ripples under moonlight.

“Uh y-yeah. A c-couple of times.” Kieran stares back down at his hands and picks at a hangnail on his thumb. The skin rips wrong. Anything to keep from thinking about Colm’s voice bellowing. No need to tell them about the other times either. “The…the last time was the day Arthur first brought me to your camp, actually. I’d…I’d told Colm some of the horses weren’t doing too good up in that cold weather in the mountains and he told me off for it. Said to take care of them or he’d take care of me.” He does not mention how much he had wanted to run away right then and there. Thought about doing it too once he heard all of that shooting coming from the mining camp. Maybe if he had not hesitated at that river for so long, he would be somewhere else right now. Away from the Van der Lindes, but maybe out there in the world and at Colm’s mercy.

“Sounds like a right arsehole if you ask me.” Sean’s words trip up on themselves, but he laughs over top of that, hiding the stumble, “A mug ugly enough to drive rats out of a barn.”

Kieran hears his fear, feels some kinship with it, though it is only a fraction of the terror that claws its way into his chest every time he sees shadows in the trees, or hoofbeats approaching the camp. No telling when Colm might come after the gang, for revenge or whatever else he holds against Dutch, when he might come around and recognize Kieran’s sad little face and call him a rat a snake a _coward_. “He scares me.”

Lenny grabs a stick from the pile of firewood and a hunting knife from his pocket. A sting of fear darts around Kieran’s collar before he realizes Lenny is just whittling. Steel digging into soft cottonwood pulp. He huffs air out between his teeth. “Scares me too. And I ain’t even met the fella. I’ve heard Arthur and Hosea tell stories, but you paint a real picture of him.”

None of them talk for a minute. A mosquito drifts in close to Kieran’s ear.

“Me da was that way. I think that’s how he got my mum to stay with him. Was always…happy and good to us kids. Until he wasn’t.” Sean coughs up, looking rather uncomfortable with himself afterwards. His eyebrows are drawn down close over his eyes, mouth frowning.

“Didn’t know you had siblings.” Lenny muses, scrapes another strip of bark into the fire.

“Two older brothers. Right bastards they were. Used to get me in trouble for every little thing they did. They left the old country long before I did. No clue where those feckers ended up.” Sean’s shoulders droop, sapling branches heavy with rain drops. “Had a little sister but she died of fever when she was but two.” He groans and mumbles something under his breath, sounds like “Shut up, MacGuire.” but Kieran would never dare ask to verify that. Wishes he had more stew to distract himself with.

He wonders if Lenny will be the next one to share, walk through the eggshells strewn about now, but he doesn’t. Keeps on whittling and chancing glances at Kieran and Sean both.

“What about you Kieran, you got family somewhere out there?” Sean asks, eyes glancing up quick.

Kieran swallows down a bubble of denial. Feels wrong to lie after what Sean said. And he doesn’t think these two have it in them to hurt him with this. “Nah. My parents were farmers, but they died when I was young. My older sister too. Cholera.” He thinks of them sometimes, wonders where they would all be if things had not gone quite so wrong. But that sure as hell won’t get him anywhere.

Lenny nods, solemn. “That’s an awful business. Seen too many folks go that way.” His eyes are more appraising, now, and he is smiling when Sean starts talking again.

“What’d you say your surname was again?”

“Duffy.”

Sean stares, narrowing his eyes as if that will help him see better. “And you really don’t know any more about this Colom's business?”

“No, I really don’t. He was never any sort of kind to me. He’s an awful man.” Kieran clenches his hands into fists, tries to ignore the pull of tearing at the broken skin on his thumb. Wishes thinking of Colm made him angry instead of terrified.

“Well then, Kieran Duffy, if you hate this old arsehole ‘Colom’ as much as you say you do, then I guess you’re one of us to be sure.” Sean says it and then smirks, waggles his finger in the air, “But don’t be thinking I’m going to go easy on you because of that. Still need to keep you on your toes.”

Kieran isn’t sure if he should believe that, wishes he knew where the hell this was coming from. Out of everyone in camp, he did not expect Sean to be the one to reach a hand out like this. Arthur is decent to him now, so is Hosea, and the girls have been kind to him. Everyone else is varying shades of untrusting, glares and curled lips. Figured that might be the end of it, that everyone else in camp might follow Dutch close enough to never trust anyone associated with the name O’Driscoll.

“What he needs to do is help us come up with another place to hide Uncle’s banjo.” Lenny laughs, bright teeth and a shameless wheeze, and Kieran feels his lungs lift up with hope.

* * *

_Sean snickers to himself, head held high as he walks back toward the main campfire. Didn’t really plan to make that O’Driscoll fall into the mud, but Sean’s brothers always told him he was good at spotting an opportunity when it presents itself, and Kieran is too nervous of a fella to not jump on a chance to scare him._

_He passes some of the tents, Arthur’s lean-to, and he is surprised when the big man himself walks out from under the awning and says, “Sean, leave him alone.”_

_Sean’s steps falter; no one ever gives him shit over scaring the O’Driscoll. “Was just playing, Arthur. Just a joke. You know that.” Sean rattles off the excuse, wondering why Arthur is bothering at all._

_A hard, glinting voice, one Sean has not heard from Arthur in a few months now. Before that talk they had on the cliffs, before teaching him to shoot right. “Sean. I mean it.”_

_“What’s the problem, Arthur? You’re being awful protective of him. He’s an O’Driscoll! Not that he’s told us much of anything about that old tool-”_

_“Ask him, then. Ask him about what it was like to be an O’Driscoll. Maybe you’ll learn something.” Arthur growls._

_Sean tries to laugh, but the air is too dry, fizzles away like a burnt out match. And Arthur’s stare is unyielding. “Learn about what it’s like to hitch your wagon to an arsehole?”_

_Arthur’s mouth pinches at the corners, that frown that Hosea does all the time. Means a hell of a lot more coming from Arthur, though. Makes Sean feel ill on the inside._

_When no more words come, Sean tries again, never sure where the line is with Arthur, feels like he oversteps it too often. Wishes he didn’t, feels like a blind gobdaw fumbling around in the dark. “Why are you so sure? Have you asked him all of that?”_

_All of Arthur’s weight settles to one leg as he crosses his arms and stares Sean down. “Don’t need to. I’ve been around a hell of a lot longer than you, Sean; I know what Colm is like.” Arthur’s voice is grim and sharp enough to skin a deer._

* * *

Kieran finds himself laughing. Not a lot; sometimes Lenny’s eyes start to look a bit intense, and not all of Sean’s jokes land to be sure, but he laughs more than he has in months. He sits on his hands to avoid worrying at them and tries to not say anything wrong or step on any toes.

“I’ll admit, I miss Blackwater. You ever been, Duffy? Beautiful town. Full of pretty girls and dumb bankers. Last we was there, I went out drinking with Arthur and Javier, before that bad boat job sent everything tits up. Got so drunk I couldn’t remember a damn thing, all I remember is Arthur laughing at everything I said, just woke up in a jail cell with Arthur across from me going on about ‘what the hell did we do?’ Poor old man. Javier’s no where to be found, of course. Had enough sense to run back to camp when the law caught us. Stumbles into camp blubbering about us being in jail. Said Dutch turned red as a boiled beet he did.” Sean tells stories in a rush, running headlong down a hill.

“I would’ve thought Arthur would be an angry drunk.” Kieran muses, glad when neither man looks to take offense on Arthur’s behalf.

“Oh, he is! If he’s given cause, I suppose. But mostly he’s the happiest man you ever met.” Lenny laughs, tosses another handful of whittled wood shavings into the crackling fire. He has been working steadily at one stick of kindling after another. “I been out drinking with him a few times and, well-,”

“You two always manage to find more trouble than you can handle, if I remember right.” Sean chides him. Lenny tries to sputter an excuse, but it is lost in the sound of Sean’s laughter.

This late at night, some folks are drifting from the main campfire to their tents off in the distance. One of those shadows separates and walks their way, Arthur’s hat and wide shoulders easy to recognize even in the dark. He walks over and stands at the edge of their circle of light.

“You two being nice to Sean? He can be a yappy thing, but he means well.” Arthur’s smile is aglow with firelight. The shadows carved along his jaw make heat rise in Kieran’s throat, but that is something he should stop thinking about immediately if he wants to keep on living.

“Doing just fine, Arthur. Sean was just telling us about the last time you and he went out drinking.” Lenny has a knowing smile on his face. He turns to Kieran, “Way I heard it, they had themselves quite a night. Set the Blackwater saloon on fire, painted the sheriff’s horse blue. Then got locked up in jail in the morning only to be rescued by Mr. Dutch Van der Linde himself.”

“Oh, and don’t forget about that fancy chicken we stole.” Sean throws in.

Arthur’s face scowls down at the pair of them, but they only laugh back at him. “Watch out for them, Kieran. Don’t trust a word they say. Especially this one.” Arthur says, smacking the flat of his hand against the top of Sean’s hat. It sinks onto his head, hides his eyes, and Sean scrambles to pull the hat up, to shout, “Watch it, old man!” at Arthur’s back. But Arthur laughs, a rumbling rasp into the air, and keeps walking off toward the middle of camp where the main fire blazes. Shadows and embers thrown up all around it.

When he turns back to them, Sean has a look in his eyes, something bright. Kieran catches Lenny rolling his eyes before going back to whittling.

“He’s a good man, that Arthur Morgan.” Sean’s voice is as close to starstruck as Kieran has ever heard anyone sound.

“Uh huh. He sure is.” Lenny says in a placating tone. A smile lingers on his face, though, betrays the veneer of cool disinterest.

“He is! Saved me from those bounty hunters, he did. And did I tell you he’s been teaching me how to shoot like he does? I mean I’m a good shot to be sure, but that quick fire of his is something else!”

Kieran remains silent, though he has to admit the change in Arthur to being decent to him has been a nice change. Then a thought strikes, and he lets it out without thinking. “What if we hid Uncle's banjo in Arthur’s trunk?”

Cricket sounds from the underbrush, and Sean and Lenny’s laughter rising up on the column of fire embers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: As an only child, having a sibling like Sean is the stuff of my nightmares.
> 
> Happy Pride Month y'all!! I hope you are loved and supported all of the days of the year. Don't forget to love each other. You are beautiful and important and valid <3


	27. Deputies

Air flowing into his lungs, then out again. In, then out. Humid southern air that hardly feels like he is breathing. Arthur squares his shoulders, feels his ribcage expand, and he holds that air in as he marches up the Rhodes Sheriff’s office steps. They creak under his weight. Damn Dutch and his plans.

He opens the door with a heavy hand, feeling more like an outlaw than he has for the past twenty years, to see Dutch and Bill crowded around Sheriff Gray. Amidst the dreary desks and papers of a law office, the metal bars in the back for holding Rhode’s finest, stands Dutch. A beacon of vibrant color and confident stature. Of all the hare-brained schemes he has come up with over the years, this one is up there.

“Arthur!” Dutch calls out, steps up close to him to clamp a hand at his shoulder. Arthur knows that grip, the one that means he needs to play along. Been feeling that grip since he was twelve years old and it still makes him flinch. “Sheriff, you remember my dear friend, Arthur Callahan. A hunter, and a killer.” Dutch says it all with a smile, teeth shining and eyes darting about like when he gets overly confident about a job. Looking to snatch things. “Arthur, you have met but not been introduced to Mr…excuse me. Sheriff Gray.”

“Good to see you again sir.” Arthur says without a thought, nods to Bill standing off to one side. Not the voice of reason he was hoping for, to be sure, but at least he isn’t Micah.

Gray wobbles in his seat, balance a lost cause, and he slurs his words. Must be drunk, then. “Good to see you again as well, my friend. Mr. Macintosh was telling me about what trouble you boys had up north.”

Arthur hates the smell of moonshine. Too sharp, enough to cut a man up. Which, from the looks of it, the Sheriff is cut apart like a rabbit butchered for stew. But that grip is still on his shoulder, iron tight, so he tries to hide the wrinkle of his nose at the stench wafting toward him. “We did?”

“Now, now, no need to hide from me, sir.” Gray leans to the side a little too far and nearly falls out of his chair. Even in this southern heat and flushed with drink, the man’s eyelids are too damn pale compared to the rest of him. Such strange faces these Grays have. “Life is a tough thing. And no man owes another man anything!” Gray starts to stagger up out of his seat, and the hand on Arthur’s shoulder tightens.

A quick glance, a wink from Dutch’s dark eyes, “Yes sir.” Arthur agrees blindly. Knows that is the right answer when Dutch’s hand eases up.

“It is just so awful to hear of good, honest men losing employment like that. But we here in Rhodes will have none of that! We have plenty of work for good, honest men such as yourselves. No need to hide that from me, no sir.” Leigh hefts a moonshine jug off of the floor, nearly toppling over after it, and holds it out to Arthur, expectant and smiling like a child.

Arthur hesitates, because he hates the sting of moonshine and its barely noon, but he takes the jug so everyone will stop looking at him.

But Leigh keeps on staring, and that hand on Arthur’s shoulder tightens so the nails dig in, and he can only roll his eyes before taking a swig from the jug. Fire and brimstone that makes his lips pucker. Scrapes his tongue. He swallows it down, maybe only half a shot if he’s lucky, and is glad to see Leigh has moved on, hopefully forgetting about him entirely.

Bill snorts a laugh into his beard.

“Excuse me, gentlemen. I need to…need to…” Leigh staggers toward the door, and he stumbles through it, falling onto the front stoop with a groan and the slam of the door behind him.

Dutch grabs the jug of moonshine from Arthur’s hand and takes a heavy swig, his lips wet and pulled back over his teeth with the burn of it. “I told you we were moving up in the world, Arthur. But you didn’t believe me. And now we are deputies in this fine, fine town.” He whispers, but somehow manages to give his words so much volume.

For the first time in a very long time, Arthur looks across at Bill and shares a moment of eye contact filled with so much comradery. Confusion and a shot glass worth of disbelief. It is oddly comforting to know that Williamson is as confused and unsure as Arthur feels right now.

Dutch grabs something off of the Sheriff’s desk, holds it out to Arthur like a child stupidly proud of catching a bug and wanting to show it off. “De-pu-ties!”

A star, the luster of silver covering brass, ‘Deputy Sheriff’ stamped into the metal. Arthur takes a step back from it as though it’s a molten hot cattle brand. Might as well be. “Have you lost your mind, Dutch? Getting in with the law? Are you trying to get us arrested?”

Dutch rolls his eyes, leans in close to Arthur’s space and sticks the badge into the fabric of his vest. “My name is Hoagy Macintosh and you will address me as such. We are living among slavers and drunkards now, Arthur. Nothing honorable about where we are, so some good, honest thieves like us are bound to be thrust into the spotlight. I figure this place could use a dose of morality.” Only Dutch’s voice carries the hint of a smile. His eyes watch Arthur closely before he leans away again, moves toward the door with purpose and wrenches it open.

Dutch walks out into the sunlight, Bill following after him with a heavy swagger to his walk. Arthur glares down at the floor, at the new shimmer of metal on his chest. He tries to remember why he is doing this, why he is bothering to follow along.

_If you continue down the path of the devil, he will take everything from you._

Arthur swallows that down and squares up, straightens his back, and walks out after them. He does not know how to fix this, how to keep his family safe, so maybe following in Dutch’s shadow one more time won’t be so bad. It is all he can tell himself.

The sunlight glazes between the porch slats, washes over them. A prison wagon sits in the street out front and the deputy from before, Archibald, holds the reins. He waves to the group of them, movements stiff and face drawn down with a frown, and Arthur knows this is going to be a long day.

Sheriff Gray, leaning against the wagon wheel with all of his weight, stumbles back toward the office steps, pale eyes looking up at them. Yawning pits of ice. “Now boys, I will not lie to you, would never lie to you. No sir. But them moonshiners out in them woods have got to go. G-got to go. I am trusting you to take care of this, Mr. Macintosh, and you too Mr. Callahan.” Gray reaches forward, and Dutch pulls his hand from the railing to avoid being touched or grabbed.

“Not a problem, sir. Not a problem at all. We’re happy to help.” Dutch makes a grand, sweeping gesture with his arms, and edges his way around the Sheriff.

Leigh staggers up to grasp the main support column of the porch, wavers toward the doorway, shuffling feet all too ready to trip. A belch of cutting air, “I gotta sit me down a second.” And he manages to sit his ass on a bench tucked under one of the front windows before he falls to the floor.

Bill snorts a laugh under his breath and follows after Dutch, footsteps heavy as they ever are. Arthur goes to follow after them, back to where Rosie is hitched at the post, but Dutch calls out, “Why don’t you ride with Archibald, Arthur? Bill and I can handle the horses.”

Arthur does his best to hide a sigh, hikes up to the wagon seat and settles in for whatever this has to be. “Archibald, good to see you again.”

“You as well, Mr. Callahan. How are you?” Archibald’s voice is stunted and tense as the wagon pulls forward, vulnerable pride, but Arthur pays that no mind. He knows what to say, when to say it, how to assure this man that they have no intention of stealing the position of deputy from him. At least, Arthur has no intention. They pass the white church perched on its hill, painted boards near blinding in the morning sun. He throws in some words of appreciation, some assurances of not causing trouble, and the frost covering Archibald’s demeanor melts away by the time town disappears behind them.

Arthur knows Dutch’s intention behind sitting him up here – Arthur wouldn’t trust Bill to get information out of the deputy either – so he tries. Whether because Dutch will have that expectant look on his face later, the raised brows and bugged out eyes, or if Arthur wants to find something out for himself about this family feud. “I…uh, had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Gray out on the property the other day. Fine man. Helped him and his son Beau with some things. Is he the head of the family?”

Archibald tosses his head around as if he does not want to answer. “Er, yes and no, Mr. Callahan. Mr. Gray’s father, Murdo Gray, he is the head of the family. Mr. Gray senior is a great man, and has led the family well for many, many years. I’ve had the honor of meeting him in person before. But, uh, time catches up to us all. If you get what I mean.”

He steers the wagon toward the bayous to the northeast and Arthur wrinkles his nose. He hates the swamps, the clouds of bugs, the gators that always seem to take too many bullets to die.

“So, any concerns or inquiries would be best brought up to Tavish, then? I’m sorry if I’m overstepping my bounds-,” He lets his voice drift, so his accent deepens; best to remind Archibald how much of an outsider he is.

“No, no, Mr. Callahan, it’s alright. Families as big as the Grays can get rather confusing if you haven’t grown up around them. I understand.”

“If it was wrong of me to ask, I apologize. Ain’t never had the chance to work with a family as renowned as the Grays-,” Arthur starts, hoping he isn’t laying this on too thick. Feels as heavy as cold molasses on his end.

But Archibald interrupts him, waving a hand, “No, no, not at all. And you weren’t wrong to assume Mr. Gray as the head of the family. He’s been taking on more and more as time goes on. And, in my opinion, it’s a good thing he has. The Braithwaites have only gotten worse over the years, and I fear Mr. Murdo Gray might not be able to handle the stress of it at his age. I would hate to see another good man taken down by those awful, horrible people.”

Arthur tries to act like he has no clue what he is talking about, which is pretty standard for him if he thinks about it. The pattering hooves of Dutch and Bill following after the wagon is easy to ignore if he just stares straight ahead. “I’ve been picking up bits and pieces around town, but I’d rather ask you, seeing as you’re a respected man of the law, and you’re bound to be in the know on more than the average folks. If you don’t mind helping an outsider understand, that is.”

Archibald puffs out his chest, sits straighter in his seat. “Well, it goes without saying that the Braithwaite’s are the worst of the worst around here. An old cotton family that has turned into some of the most scheming, thieving people around. They’re the moonshiners we’re dealing with today. You could call it a fall from grace if they had any grace to start with.”

“After all that’s happened to us, I like to know who I’m working for. Mr. Gray seemed like an honest man, to me.”

“Oh, he surely is. Honest to a fault. Gives Leigh hell every time he comes into the office. Brothers they may be, but the two of them don’t see eye to eye on very much. Though, you didn’t hear that from me, of course.” A thought to tuck away for later.

The wagon wheels keep turning, just like this conversation, and Arthur lets Archibald continue on whatever track he’s in. Bringing up the gold didn’t work with Beau the other day, doubt it will gain much traction here either. “You know, Catherine Braithwaite’s newest expense has been buying up thoroughbred horses. Now, I will admit, they were pretty as pictures coming off that train from up north. But maintaining a habit like that is not an easy thing. I wouldn’t be surprised if we call on you and your fellows for more help in the future; more Braithwaite stills are bound to crop up in the next few weeks.”

“Must be tough being rich.” Arthur says, half for the act of saying it and half to himself. Archibald laughs, which is good, but it sparks Arthur thinking down the path of having enough money to stop worrying about everything. Dress in fine clothes and sleep with a roof over his head every night with not a care in the world. Supposes that such a thing would mean the end of the gang; no need to rob the rich if they _are_ the rich.

* * *

Sneaking through the swamps around the moonshine stills goes just fine, the four of them as efficient as clockwork gears. For all Bill’s bluster and dumb bravado, Arthur has to admit they work well together. Although, Dutch glares at him when they meet back up at the wagons. Arthur ignores the quick flare of Dutch’s temper, knows it is only because he went with Bill and left Dutch to entertain Archibald’s rambling.

Blowing up the stills goes just the same. He and Bill wander back toward the messes of shed and pipes, heavy glass bottles steamed in the southern heat. Arthur digs out some dynamite from his satchel, hands a stick to Bill, and recoils at the harsh way he grabs it.

Bill scowls, not an unusual thing for him, and barks, “What, you aren’t going to make a joke about handing me dynamite?”

Arthur thinks for a moment, shrugs, “I can make one if you want me to.”

“Well, now…no that’s not what I meant! Oh, forget it.” Bill grumbles, marches off to the furthest still. And Arthur is happy to leave him to it; never sure what exactly sets off Bill most of the time. Until he hears gunshots firing from the trees. One more thing to blame on Bill’s shitty luck, always an easy excuse to make.

Then it is a gunfight breaking out, angry men pouring out from between the trees. The stink of gunsmoke and water rotten plants hangs heavy in the air. In the yelling, the fighting, ducking from cover to cover, Arthur steps into a puddle and swamp muck seeps into a hole in his left boot. It soaks into his sock, and he curses God for creating swamps. Good for nothing hellholes. Nothing but gators and bugs and redneck moonshiners carrying too many guns.

Bill fires his rifle and hits the last runner, and the air hangs still and murky. “Bastards! That the last of them?” He calls from behind a ramshackle shed half submerged in swamp water. Not much for cover in a firefight out here.

“I think so.” Arthur calls back, straightening up from behind a water barrel and peering around. Corpses litter the ground now, blood seeping into the red mud. _Lemoyne Raiders_, Archibald told him. The mercenary militia that would have been all too happy to rob him and Sadie the other week.

He steps up to one of the bodies, starts patting at pockets, glad for the help when Bill comes up to do the same. Sun and heat bakes into his back, and Arthur takes a chance. “I don’t know about this deputy business. Seems like a bad idea to get this close with the law.” He throws the words out, checking pockets as though nothing is amiss. When he chances a glance over to Bill, desperate for a branch to grab ahold of, it is the tiniest comfort to see Bill pause, shrug, look as confused as he ever does. At least that hasn’t changed.

“It does feel a little strange to be doing all this for the law. But Dutch says they’ve got gold hidden around here somewhere, so you ain’t gonna hear me complain.” Bill rolls a body aside to get at the pockets, gruff movements.

Arthur falters, tucks a money clip into his satchel, tries again, “From what I’ve been hearing that gold ain’t been real for a long time. Everyone I talk to just says its old stories.”

“Well hell, Morgan we ain’t been down here more than ten minutes.” Bill stands with his rifle ready, checking the tree line until Arthur finishes up. They start walking back toward where they left the wagons. “Dutch is a smart man. He’ll figure out what’s what.”

His loyalty, blind though it may be, is always so steady, and Arthur nods along with it. “Sure. And hey, good shooting back there, Williamson.” He pats a hand at Bill’s shoulder as they walk, and smirks when the man is surprised by it. Stumbles away a step and glares.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I _mean_ good shooting, Williamson.” Arthur rolls his eyes and keeps walking. He doesn’t know how to save the gang, or if he should consider Bill a part of that; he and Arthur have never been ones to get along all that well, and he’s not sure if a man so prone to violence and anger could leave this life. But maybe. And making fun of Bill is easy, always has been, but Arthur supposes there is no need to jump on all of those chances. Reminds himself to try, change the man he is.

“Oh. Ah, thanks.”

Their boots squelch in the mud as they make their way back to find Dutch leaning on a wagon of moonshine left over from the stills. He hands one of the jugs to Archibald, they nod to each other, and the deputy is kicking at the criminals tied up on the ground.

“Get up you degenerate, no good, white trash, hillbilly pieces of scum!” The men scramble to stand and start walking, following Archibald and filing into the prison wagon waiting for them.

“Pleasure working with you again, Mr. Callahan!” Archibald calls out before riding off into the trees, and Arthur waves to the deputy, ignores Dutch’s hard glare.

But that look dissipates like a cloud of steam, and Dutch is smiling again. A job well done overshadowing the annoyance of the deputy not thanking _him _personally. “Finally. Finally. We have alighted on a land so stupid, a backwater so backwards, that even we are like geniuses.” The smile on Dutch’s face is hard to argue with, hard to ignore, and Arthur finds himself smiling in return. Bill laughs, caught in the same current.

Dutch sets a hand at both of their shoulders, and Arthur does not flinch as much as he feared he would. “Archibald was reluctant to leave this swill to us, but I talked him around, so we might as well take it. Bill, take this wagon and go stash it somewhere near camp. Show it to Hosea. He’ll find some use for it, I’m sure.” Dutch smacks his hand at Bill’s shoulder and turns to Arthur, not looking to check that Bill does as asked, knowing he will.

Bill’s face is alight with the ease of being given an order, being given even a fraction of trust. “Sure thing boss!” And he rushes off to climb into the wagon seat, crack the reins against the horses and ride off. Brown Jack tosses his head and follows after quickly, heavy hooves pounding against the road mud.

Then it is just the two of them, and although Arthur’s chest tightens with nerves, he also hopes this might be a chance to talk with Dutch, figure out where they stand.

“C’mon, Arthur. You ride with me.” Dutch climbs up into the Count’s saddle, and Arthur follows suit with Rosie. They start down the game trail leading out to this corner of the bayou and start down the main road. “That was well worth the effort, I think. Deputized and hiding in plain sight. These lawmen, these two families. I’m thinking we can really play this from all sides. Once Hosea starts sinking his teeth in, we’ll be in good shape here.”

That confidence, easy to dip into and let it wash over him, is what keeps Arthur from protesting, from voicing a complaint of this being a bad idea. Just for today he can let it go, he thinks. This doubting Dutch, assuming the worst of his actions, his words, _the devil_, it is exhausting. And he just does not want to.

“This is sounding more like the ‘young Dutch’ again!” Arthur says it, like a cup of cool water on a hot day. Soothing his throat and his mind.

“What are you talking about ‘young Dutch’? I am as strong as I have ever been.” Dutch sits high in his saddle, shoulders tilted back. “Hey, why don’t I race you back?”

Arthur’s heart leaps, though he wishes it wouldn’t. Back when it was still just him and Hosea and Dutch, both men would challenge him to races, egg him on until he agreed. It would be flashing sunlight and wind in his hair and the power of a horse galloping as fast as he could spur it. He won a lot of those races when he was younger, though he always suspected Dutch and Hosea let him win more often than not. But it was more about racing down a trail and not caring where he was headed, not a worry to be seen, with Dutch and Hosea at his side. Been a long time since either one of the old men has suggested a race.

“Okay, you’re on.”

* * *

There is that itch again. A prickle on the back of Dutch’s neck. Different from the tickle when his hair gets too long and curls under. Different from when Molly runs her curved nails along the nape of his neck to make him shiver. No, this is something he has become too familiar with in the past few months. For a while, he could ignore it, think of it as a rogue breeze on the wind, but he can’t do that anymore, at least not when it’s like this.

The Count’s muscles bunch underneath his saddle, hooves tearing into the red mud of the Lemoyne roads. He suggested this race, he knows he did, and it felt like the best damn idea he has ever had. Wind in his face and speed under his feet and winning.

Now it feels like his neck is on fire because he knows Arthur is behind him, knows the boy could shoot him any time he chooses. But he hasn’t. Hasn’t yet. Why hasn’t he yet?

The way he’s been acting, doubting and questioning, kicking up a fuss over things he never used to, it sends Dutch’s nerves scrabbling at the walls of his skull. Never used to. What changed? He doesn’t want to hear it doesn’t want to see it. Hates that it cycles through his mind in a constant whirlpool. Because he knows Arthur would be the one. He would be the one to pull the trigger if ever there was one. Just a few months back, Dutch never would have dreamed up a nightmare like this. His son, not flesh and blood but his _son_, Arthur would never. Maybe John, if pushed just so, but even he would not do this, would not shoot Dutch in the back. It would be beneath him, all of them, but then why does it seem so obvious that Arthur would?

Should he mention it to Arthur? Pull the boy aside and ask what the hell has gotten into him? Things went to shit the last time he asked, and it will just drive the wedge further between them, a divide that scares Dutch down to the very core.

_“The world doesn’t want folk like us no more!”_ Sitting in a lantern-lit darkness and Arthur walking out of the gloom, freshly woken from a nightmare, the strain obvious in his sweaty face and bitten lips. Boy’s tells always were easy to see, easy to hear, and it’s not as though he has been trying to hide how much he disagrees with how Dutch runs things. _“I don’t see this ending any other way.”_

Nothing good came of that, of asking, of trying to understand.

“I’m catching up, old man!” Arthur calls from behind him. His voice, loud and twanging as it ever is, sounds so close.

Dutch glances back behind him, spies a shine of metal, and he pulls hard at the Count’s reins. Fear squeals in his ears and the ringing keeps on, won’t stop. His horse veers to the left, off the road and into the open grass of the Scarlet Meadow hills. Always knew Arthur would be the one to shoot him in the back, always, _I expect you’ll betray me in the end, Arthur. You’re the type, _but Dutch thought he had more time thought he could talk to the boy and make him see reason but if this is how it ends. His hands clamp hard on the reins, knows his pistol is just a reach away but that sets him sweating he would never do that, never. There is a grinding pressure surrounding his eyes, making the world go blurry and numb. What the hell has gotten into him. Heart racing, he digs his spurs down, makes the Count roar, and Arthur calls from behind him,

“Thought you were above cheating to win, Dutch!” Arthur’s horse is snorting up a storm, sounds like a steaming devil chasing after him. The shot does not come, no bloom of pain between his ribs, and Dutch has no idea why. He thought he saw something. Arthur doesn’t sound angry, but sometimes he does, says things that makes Dutch nervous. And the boy is certainly capable, could shoot and end it right now, end this race right now.

_"You are worrying me, Dutch.”_

_“You’ve been acting like a stranger. You’re worrying me, son.”_

He is, worried that is. Arthur never acted like this, talked like this, before. Worst thing he ever feared from the boy was his turned back, watching him leave their lives, not this, never this. Not this fear of pain and darkness and being taken down by someone he thought he could trust, thought he could rely on.

And just like that, camp appears in his view, a glowing beacon in the harsh afternoon sun. Cutting through the field like that means he is still ahead, still in the lead, and he cracks at the Count’s reins, drives the stallion headlong past the guard standing in the brush at the edge of camp. There is a yell as the man jumps out of the way, Javier standing guard, good that will mean at least someone loyal between Dutch and Arthur.

He isn’t thinking of much as he drives the Count on, skull buzzing, mouth dry, afraid if he slows or stops there will only be a bullet waiting for him. The Count gallops to the hitching post closest to the tents, and halts, hooves grinding into the red soil and kicking up clumps. He nearly rears, whinnies shrill and panicked.

Dutch scrambles down from the saddle, does not bother with much of anything besides getting down and feeling solid ground underneath his feet and turning to where Arthur is riding at him,

But the boy is not riding at him. He has slowed his horse down to a walk and is approaching the same hitching post with a disappointed set to his face. “Yeah, yeah, alright. You won, Dutch. Don’t think I’ve ever seen the Count move that damn fast before.”

No anger, no violence, not a damn trace of it. None of it. The panic, the thing he does not want to call terror, starts to drain away. Blood seeping from the throat of a strung up deer. He sucks in a breath, feels it rattle around in his chest, hail on a tin roof, and he drops his hands to his sides, feels a wave of some unnamed thing begin to wash over him. He was so sure. So sure. And now.

“I…I’m sorry, son.” His head aches, the muscles in his thighs and arms twinge with tension. Does not know what the hell that was, and he feels bile climbing up his throat at the fear of putting a name to it, thinking of it as real.

“Ah, spare the gloating, Dutch.” Arthur huffs, and Dutch scrambles after his words, grabs ahold of them and tugs, because if Arthur did not notice then he wants nothing more than to ignore what just happened. It felt… But he doesn’t want to put words to it, doesn’t want to know.

“Gloating. Right. Why ever would I gloat.” He tries to chuckle under his breath, hides the shaking of his hands by messing with the Count’s reins at the hitching post. The horse’s eyes are still blown wide and sharp with fear.

“Very funny, Dutch.” Arthur leads his horse to the same post, patting her sweat slick shoulder. He stands there with his hands at his belt and a smirk on his face despite the words.

Dutch tries for a moment, meets a gaze of blue sky he thought he knew so well, and glances away again when even that moment feels like too much. Hot coals on exposed muscle. Keeping his eyes on the shine of the deputy badge is easier. Maybe he doesn’t know Arthur as well as he once did. Maybe he doesn’t know himself as well as he once did. “I…am sorry, son…But thank you for humoring me today. It was…It was good to race you again.”

Arthur gives a small smile, half of what it would have been so many years ago.

Dutch draws a breath to say more, remembers all those years back, chasing freedom with this boy and knowing they would stand with each other no matter what. “I…Thank you, son, for today.”

Arthur gives him a nod, looks close to saying something himself, but Dutch turns away, keeps his face tilted toward the ground, staring at his boots as he walks back to his tent. The canvas flaps hang open, and when he pushes past the fabric Molly is no where to be seen. A small miracle.

He sits on his cot, hangs his head down to his knees, and grips rough fingers into his hair. He felt so sure, so sure he saw a pistol in Arthur's hand. Was he wrong? His skull aches. Feels anger touching at the edges. No, no, he knows he saw something. All of those thoughts, of Arthur betraying him and leaving him for dead, of throwing all these years away and losing that trust, they swirl in a maelstrom and all he can think is why. Why now. Why Arthur. Why does it feel like his mind is playing tricks on him. Why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: I have a plan!


	28. Flashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a year since I posted the first chapter of this, and I cannot believe this is still going. I appreciate every single one of you reading this, whether you've been here since the beginning or are just catching up or are somewhere in between. Thank you for all the kudos and lovely comments, for the motivation to continue writing this <3
> 
> This one is a long chapter of more little moments - none of them are connected or in any particular order, just bits and pieces that I can't write into whole chapters.
> 
> CW: Mention of torture. Blood.

Arthur cannot remember how many journals he has gone through over the years. Hosea handed him a blank book at only a half year in and all of them still wary of each other. The old man told him to write down his thoughts if he was going to brood so damn much. And Arthur did. Wrote down every little thing he could think of to try and calm his mind. Kept it to himself how much it helped; Hosea’s shit-eating grin is too much sometimes.

Then Dutch told him to keep the things that mattered in it, to keep some of all the places they travelled and the people they met. He doubts drawing things the way he does was Dutch’s intention, but after so many years of this he cannot imagine not. Sure, he has lost all of those journals from years past, but he never intended to keep them for forever anyway. And ever since he heard _save them_ it feels nice to sketch a moment and have these people in his journal, for keeps. When he spends a day in camp he settles in a spot and starts, pays little attention to who.

Pearson’s cleaver coming down on a hunk of salted pork. Charles sitting at the morning campfire, steaming mug of coffee lifted to his face. John’s hat bent low over a mess of pistol pieces and gun oil. Tilly and Mary-Beth giggling with their hands over their mouths to try and hide the noise. Taima’s swishing tail as Charles brushes red dust from her coat. The hint of Charles’ smirk as Susan stalks past chasing after Sean for something,

Arthur stops, stares down at his open journal, the pencil still stuck in his hand. A page of Charles, pencil lines messy and drifting. His fingers grab at the top of the page, start to pull, tear, and he stops. Stomach curdling. Sweat clinging in the curve of his palm. He knows that part of this is wrong. Does not remember who or what taught him that, but he knows it. Wrong to think of Charles this way. Like someone he can want.

Again, Arthur scrambles for him, for that awful man he knows is hidden somewhere deep down. Iron shards buried under his skin and wedged in the muscles. If he could just find him, all of this heart stumbling bullshit would go away. That man would chase out all of these stupid thoughts, tear this page out and toss it in a campfire, spit on whatever yearning Arthur’s poor heart craves.

But his hand lingers, no trace of that man to kick sand onto a sparked fire. His stomach broils, aches like he might just split in half. Leaves whispering in the wind. Roots twined amongst his guts. He drops his hand, smooths it over the paper and the moments of Charles there, and turns the page.

* * *

“Hey, Karen, did you miss me?” It’s Sean’s voice and Karen fights with her lungs to hold in a sigh. She closes her book, thumb tucked into the pages to mark her place. The tent awning over her head flutters in a vague breeze.

Anytime he leaves camp for a day or two, Sean makes a habit of asking her this when he gets back. Does she notice when he is gone? Sure, but that does not mean she misses him like he seems to want her to. But he is nearby a lot now. He sits next to her at the campfires, passes her a drink before she has to ask, and his smiles are too infectious to be good for her health. And all those things he said on the overlook cliffs, she’s still not sure if she is going to believe them, even though she wants to more than anything.

“Saw these on my ride back, made me think of you. Thought you might like them.” Sean’s smile is small, gap-toothed. He holds a bundle out, hand steady even though his grin shakes and wobbles.

A bundle of cranesbill flowers, soft purple and a paler center. Fuzzy stems stripped of leaves, a few of the delicate petals already fallen off. Such fragile things these flowers are. Why does Sean have to be as sappy as he is? Why does he have to call her pretty and make jokes with her and looks at her like _you make my heart jump and my hands get all sweaty_.

The world stills around them, and Karen laughs to ease the tension on her ribs, on her heart. She lets a laugh out, but cuts it off when Sean’s shoulders bow, all the weight of the world heaving down onto him. His ego isn’t hers to protect, not her job and one she does not want, but he seems genuine. Seems it.

A colder part of her advises turning away, going back to her book as if Sean never said a word. It would be cruel, but it might dissuade him a bit. He is persistent, and Karen wishes she could be madder about that.

“Oh, give them here.” She holds out a hand and shrinks back when Sean grins too wide.

He passes them to her, his hand careful not to touch hers much. “Have a lovely day, Miss Jones.” Sean bows at the waist, waves his arm as if he is anything but an outlaw. Then he saunters off, shoulders and head held high, whistling, and leaves Karen staring at her flowers.

Joining this gang, she never thought this would ever be a part of her life; having a man chase after her like this, with harmless gestures, all dopey smiles and a grin anytime she sings at the campfire. No anger when she sneers at his bad jokes, no insults when she belches loud and unapologetic at supper. He makes the time pass alright.

The constant running, chasing trains and robbing banks, it’s all very exciting. Until it isn’t. It is those moments between jobs that really grate on her, make her want to claw her own eyes out. Because there are only so many days you can wash the same clothes and mend the same pants and patrol the same section of woods before you go batty. At least when you know it is all temporary, never meant to stay. Drinking makes that time pass faster, something to do, even though it isn’t, not really.

She looks at the flowers, a dozen stems of vibrant petals. Genuine. The thought of tossing them aside in one of the rubbish barrels crosses her mind, but that is too cruel, for Sean and for her and for the flowers.

It is easy to get up, leave her book behind, and find an old whiskey bottle to wash out in the lake water. She settles the flowers in the bottle and puts it on top of her trunk. She goes back to reading, searching through the pages to find her place again. They sit in the corner of her eye, purple and prettier than they have any right to be.

And if she looks to those flowers over the next few days, watches their petals start to whither and fall in the sweltering southern heat, she is the only one to know how they make her smile.

* * *

“_Arthur_.” Deep and liquid the way only venom can be. Cigar smoke curling between words, questions, demands. Teaching, guiding, paying in blood. Gleaming gold at fingertips too quick to pull the trigger.

“_Arthur_.” Rose water perfume and a squeaking porch swing. The voice of floors too shiny for his boots. Rasping paper tucked into envelopes. Whispers behind hands and in the soft air of summer sunsets. Goodbyes never sweet nor bitter.

_“Arthur.”_ Dusty dollar bills shoved into reluctant hands. Sweet penny candy and the innocent, clueless laugh of a child. Every few weeks, then every few months, then never again.

“_Arthur_.” Dark hair on the breeze. Strength in voice and mind and body. Sweet smoke and soft leather. So warm. Careful words and hands, never one out of place. Scarred with violence. Heat and comfort and a place to hide. Calm waters. Eyes deep and dark enough to drown in.

He reaches a hand out to that voice, does not care that he is not supposed to. Too dark to see, too thick to hear, but his hand reaches and meets callouses rasping warm against his palm. A strong grip that holds his hands and his skin together.

The slime, the ill swirling in his stomach, groans.

_“Arthur.”_

“Arthur, wake up.” Charles’ voice, whisper quiet, just enough to wake Arthur from whatever dream he is lost in. His head fuzzes with noise, feelings, a place he could not see but filled with so many voices.

_“Oh, Arthur.”_

But he blinks that away to sit up, thinking Charles has woken him because they are in danger, a threat lurking in the trees around their makeshift camp, but his voice is calm, holds no fear or worry.

Just quiet and whisper soft. “You were…squirming. You alright?”

“I…Yeah I’m fine.” Not a full truth, not a full lie. Arthur rubs a hand at the back of his head, feels where his hair is tamped down from sleeping on it. His chest hurts, his throat clenched up all uncomfortable like he’s been crying.

The campfire flickers low, muted crackling underneath the rumble of crickets chirping around them. Two other bodies tucked into bedrolls lie close in the firelight, Javier and Bill, both sleeping soundly. He remembers now – they are camping in Cumberland Forest to rob a shipment of guns headed to the oil refinery. Damn thing is supposed to roll by just before dawn. Still a long way off.

“Sorry if I bothered you.” He expects for Charles to look over and pin him with that flat look, the one he reserves for the truly stupid, unnecessary things that tumble out of Arthur’s mouth sometimes.

But his gaze stays on the campfire, tension held in the still line of his shoulders. “You were…mumbling.”

A flash of fear, heart clenching. “Well, sure hope I didn’t say anything too strange.” If Arthur thinks hard enough, he can imagine he heard Dutch’s voice somewhere in the mist of that dream, though that isn’t a strange thing nowadays; the man’s words circle in his mind near as bad as Old Man Cassidy’s anymore. There were a few other voices too though he knows not to dwell on them.

Charles’ eyes glance up to him then away, uncomfortable and silent. Arthur’s teeth clench to keep back more unnecessary words. Whatever he said couldn’t have been good, but he trusts Charles to tell him if it was too bad.

Stars swim across the night sky, cool darkness above them. It won’t be close to dawn for a few hours yet, and while Arthur feels tired, he knows he won’t be getting back to sleep; his eyes feel too sore. “Get some rest, Charles. I don’t feel much like sleeping any more.”

“You sure?”

“Sure.”

Charles watches him for a long moment, dark eyes sparked warm by the fire, but turns away, “Wake me if you need to.” He lies down in his own bedroll and turns away from the fire.

Arthur waits a while, listens for the quiet calm of sleep breathing before he dares glance over. Wishes he could sit closer to the man, close enough to set a hand at his shoulder, assure himself that all is fine. Feel body heat seeping into his palm and the calm rise and fall of Charles’ breathing. Feel comfort in closeness.

He sits and watches the stars, the forest around them, and ignores how much he wishes some things could be real.

* * *

_“I just…I just don’t know what to do with him. Arthur has…he’s changed. Don’t you think so? Ah, you haven’t been travelling with us long, my dear, but he is different now. Yes…very different…He…”_

Molly clenches her hands into fists, reminds herself why she needs to talk to Arthur sooner rather than later. If it were anything else, she would not bother. Toss this aside and ignore it for what it is; nothing. Of course it’s nothing. It has to be nothing. But for a moment Dutch was not looking at her, or past her, but somewhere else entirely. His dark eyes lost focus and his mouth rolled his next word around behind his teeth for too long. It was unsettling to watch, and the more Molly thinks on it, the more dread bubbles up in her belly.

_Dutch seems to awaken from the momentary stupor, blinks his eyes until they clear. “…He never used to talk like this. Or act like…And the way he’s been speaking to me. It just makes me worry.”_

“Arthur, can I have a word with you?” Molly calls out to him, hoping against hope that he will not ignore her, will not brush this off as nothing. He is out in the field at the edge of camp, close to the fluttering cottonwoods and twittering birds, brushing his horse down. When he turns and tips his hat to her, she trudges through the grass toward him.

“Miss O’Shea.” Arthur greets with a touch of a smile and a nod.

“Oh, call me Molly would you.” She tries to feel some confidence in saying that, tries to stop wringing her hands. “Arthur…How is Dutch? I mean, how does he seem to you?”

Arthur’s stance shifts, stiffens. “Fine.” He says it like he can’t get it out of his mouth fast enough.

She does not believe that word for a moment. Too quick, too skittish. Her eyes narrow, and Arthur shrinks back from her. “Mr. Morgan, you and I both know that isn’t true.”

Arthur’s eyes spark and he gets as still as a frightened rabbit. Looks down to the ground to avoid her eyes. “What do you want me to say, Molly?”

Molly opens her mouth to tell him. Tell him she wants reassurance, wants him to tell her there is nothing to worry about, to tell her that the man she loves with all her heart is still there, that there is no trace of poison in his eyes, that it is just her imagination and the stress of this life. But saying all of that, acknowledging it…

Dutch always says loyalty is everything. Not love, loyalty. She doesn’t want to think of Arthur that way; he has been courteous and kind to her in his way. But if he is starting to stray from Dutch, looking to betray him, then she shouldn’t tell him any of this. Should keep it to herself, maybe.

Her mind summersaults, not sure what she wants Arthur to say, unsure what she wanted out of this. It was stupid to think that she should tell him about this. Arthur looks ready to say something, a halting apology maybe,

“Morgan!” A man’s sharp yell, Williamson, and Arthur looks away from her face again. “I need another set of hands on this job and Javier rode off somewhere.” Bill’s eyes flash up to Molly, and immediately look away again. The man is always so nervous she wonders how he manages to be an outlaw at all.

Arthur sighs, heavy and low, “Bill…”

“What, Morgan? You already busy with something?”

“No. But I _was_ talking to Miss O’Shea.” Arthur scowls, but it is a fragile look Molly knows, and it falters under Bill’s eyeroll.

“Well fine then! I’ll ask someone else to come with me. Ain’t like this stagecoach is going to wait for us.” Bill stomps off, and Arthur looks like he wants to follow after him.

Molly rolls her eyes at his politeness, forces herself to huff, “It’s fine, Arthur. Go on.” She doesn’t know what she meant to say to him anymore. Doesn’t know if she should say anything at all. Best to keep this change in Dutch a secret, it’s probably nothing. Nothing.

“If you’re sure, Molly-,”

“Sure, I’m sure. It’s fine.” Her arms fold in front of her and she ignores how her mother told her to stop that habit when she was young. Feels like a stove fire stuffy with too many ashes caked up.

Arthur only stands in that limbo for a moment before grabbing his horse’s lead and trailing after Bill.

Molly watches him a moment, starts back toward camp, stills, veers off to sit by one of the lone trees. Doesn’t want to be back in Dutch’s tent, doesn’t want to be around much of anyone. The tree roots feel rough under her hands. She watches Arthur trudge after Bill, call out to him. They bicker until Arthur pats a hand at Bill’s shoulder. There is a squawk, Arthur’s laugh, and Molly turns her eyes away from them.

It's for the best, she tells herself. Best to keep Arthur out of it. No need to have him worrying, or worse scheming up something. Dutch would be furious if he knew she had meant to say anything about this. Even though she has no idea what _this_ is.

That thought gives her nothing. Calms none of the swelling burst of anxious jittering in her stomach. Because she wants to know. Wants to hear it from Arthur, a man that has known Dutch far longer than Molly has. Wants to hear Arthur it. Say all is fine. Dutch will be back to his old self soon, all is fine. That this really is nothing and Molly can stop trying to convince herself.

* * *

_“Just running an errand or two to Emerald Ranch. You…uh, you’re welcome to join me. If you want to.”_

That is all it takes for Charles to follow Arthur on another trip out of camp. All it ever takes is Arthur’s nervous, skittering eyes and the way he kicks at the dirt when he asks. The reminders that Arthur feels comfortable enough around him to ask him, trusts him enough. And the way Charles’ lungs relax in the silence between them, it is worth the time and the smallest ache in his heart. And riding out with Arthur is easy, expecting nothing of Charles but his company, no questions to answer and no ends to meet.

Out near Emerald Ranch, in the endless sweeping hills of tall grassland, Charles spots a figure and a horse out in the fields. It is not so strange to see a lone man standing in the midst of the plains, but a tripod setup is.

Charles nearly points the man out, but Arthur beats him to it. “Well, I’ll be damned. You mind if we make a stop here, Charles?” His tone is light, full of warm air.

“Not at all. You know him?” Charles pulls Taima’s reins to follow Rosie off the trail.

“Something like that.” Arthur does not hesitate to approach the man, who is turned from them to adjust something on the tripod. “Good to see you again, Mr. Mason!” Arthur calls to the man as they approach, the smile on his face looking far more genuine than Charles expects. Not exactly a stranger, then.

Mr. Mason, clean straw hat and starch pressed shirt, shining with the gleam of city life, looks up at Arthur’s call and steps away from the tripod. His smile, his face, is as bright as ivory buttons. “Why, Mr. Morgan! It is lovely to see you again. What brings you to my corner of the, uh, grasslands I suppose?”

Arthur dismounts from Rosie’s saddle and Charles follows his lead after a moment of hesitation. Mason is definitely not a stranger, then. The grasses of the Heartlands come up to their knees, whispering against their pants and boots. “Oh, just doing a bit of riding today. Headed nowhere in particular. May I introduce my dear friend, Charles Smith. Charles, this is Albert Mason. He’s a photographer I’ve run into a few times out here.”

Albert’s face flares brighter, somehow, like lit kerosene and he reaches forward for a handshake, seeming unconcerned with Charles’ serious exterior. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Smith. Any friend of Arthur’s is a friend of mine.”

The surprise at such friendliness does not last long and Charles grips the man’s hand, soft skin free of callouses, does not try to hide his smirk when Albert shakes his hand out after they let go. “Likewise.”

“And, Arthur you flatter me with such a title. Out of anyone you can certainly attest to my lacking skill.” Mason laughs, rubs a hand at the back of his neck.

“Don’t believe a word he says, Charles. He’s a good shot. Just…a bit clumsy. What are you doing out here in the Heartlands, anyway? Hope you’re not looking for wolves again.” Arthur circles the camera setup, hands on his hips and eyes narrowed at the little box.

Charles wonders if Arthur’s talent for sketching would lend itself to photography.

“Oh, well, I spotted a herd of wild horses and wanted to get a shot of them, maybe with the mountains in the background. I had enough inspiration to set up the shot but getting those horses to stampede past is far beyond me. I’m sure they can smell my stupidity. Don’t know what I was thinking.”

Arthur frowns. Charles follows Mason’s eyeline and spots a herd of horses, mustangs, grazing on sweet meadow grass along one of the ridges encircling the valley.

Charles finds himself expecting the kindness before it comes, and he keeps his smile hidden when Arthur pipes up, “Well, suppose I could herd them over this way for you. Long as you don’t get me in the picture it shouldn’t matter, right?”

A jump in Mason’s posture, “Would…I mean if you would be bothered? I mean I feel like such a blunderer. You’ve already helped me so much.” Charles spies the shift in Albert’s demeanor. Not dangerous, not at all, but different. His spine uncurls and his smile gets so bright when he looks at Arthur. Albert’s hand reaching for Arthur’s arm, pulled back and tucked away. The sheepish smiles and cheeks going rosy.

_Ah_.

Charles keeps his eyes on the herd off in the distance while Albert gesticulates and shows Arthur where the horses will need to run past. Arthur must notice none of Albert’s tells, oblivious as he ever is, because he leans into the man’s space, pointing and making sure he has everything right.

Not that Charles pays any attention to that. Not his to notice. Not his to prickle over. If he pretends, he can imagine the curl of hot jealousy in the pit of his stomach is not his. Not his.

“Sure, I can do that for you. Ah, Charles, you up for riding along?” Arthur raises a hand to his hat, makes sure it is there as if it ever goes anywhere else. His eyes are blue and flighty under the brim.

Charles wonders if Arthur realizes the weight of this moment, of the moments he seems to think nothing of. His words, _I used to be the biggest bastard you ever met_, seem so distant now. “Sure.”

That smile again, so much wrapped up in it. But Arthur is not his. Cannot be. Maybe not Mason’s. A white man of society, sharing the artistic eye Arthur so clearly has. Clean hands, free of dirt and blood and pain and lives. Educated and confident in the way he fiddles with the camera, friendly enough to fill those silences Arthur leaves open. Better than Charles. Could be Arthur’s. Would be better for him. It would be easy to hate Mason for those things, but Charles doesn’t. Not the man’s fault this world swallows and spits people out differently.

“Oh, thank you. Thank you both so much. I can only hope my camera can do these horses justice.”

They mount up again and canter towards the rocky hillside reaching out of the valley edge. Like a spoon leaning against the edge of a bowl. Circling the ridge to get behind the horses, Charles says to the air, “This is kind of you.”

“Well…not really. He needed a bit of help last time I caught him out here too.” Arthur isn’t looking at him, and Charles rolls his eyes.

“Well, some outlaw you are. Anyone else would’ve just robbed him.”

Arthur glances over, smiles into the collar of his shirt. He wheels Rosie around until they face the length of the valley. Plains sprawl out before them, grassy hills a lazy cat rolling in a sunlit window.

They stand in that space for a few moments, and when Charles chances a glance over it is to see Arthur engrossed in watching the herd, probably studying the black and white splotched stallion to sketch later. He is leant forward in the saddle, strong hands on the horn, and Charles allows himself a moment to appreciate the curve of Arthur’s spine, the smooth expanse of his back hidden under his blue work shirt.

“Well?” Charles asks, smiles at the easy turn of Arthur’s head, worn hat and freckled cheeks. “After you, cowboy.” Charles gestures forward, keeps his voice on the edge, bordering on what teasing he will allow himself.

Arthur looks away, down to Rosie’s withers where he tends to retreat. “Try to keep up, big man.”

Charles has time to blink, to track the path of Arthur’s tongue as he licks his lips.

Arthur spurs Rosie forward, taking off like a shot, and Charles charges Taima after them without another moment to think. The stallion startles first, rearing at their sudden appearance and taking off down the slope with the herd following.

It is a rush. Wind in his hair and under Taima’s hooves. The grass sings to them, with them, as they ride down the hill. Chasing the wind and the mustangs. The herd gallops, tails streaming in their wake, blue skies stretching endless and free. Charles chances a glance over, sees Arthur grinning like there is nothing else in the world. When their eyes meet, Charles cannot help the smile on his face, the yell that rolls up from his lungs, ribs squeezing out a whoop bold and bright to the sky.

“Yeehaw!” Arthur shouts in answer over the thunder of hoofbeats, the surge of blood in Charles’ ears, his racing heartbeat. It is ridiculous enough to make him laugh, deep in his chest and heavy in the air rushing past them.

Taima’s legs blur and Charles feels like they could fly if the right breeze swept them up. Sharp hooves tearing into the dirt, into the shallow pools of water nestled amongst the grasses. The herd kicks up enough spray to hit Charles’ face and he feels the world breathe with him.

Albert must get a good shot; the air flashes too sudden to be sunlight and he yells, distant, “Fantastic! Amazing!”

The herd of mustangs veer off toward the mountains, but Rosie and Taima keep running, racing each other to nowhere. Charles does not dare pull on the reins, does not want this to end. He has no idea where they are going, what the future holds, but he feels his heart soar at the thought of living in this moment forever. A flash of so much. A flash of life beyond this one they are stuck in. A flash of having nothing to run from, nothing to hide, nothing but space ahead of them.

They stop eventually, the horses huffing from the run. Charles’ mouth scrapes dry gulping in air, and Arthur’s chest heaves with the same breathlessness. He looks over, through the sunlight and the adrenaline, and Charles wants. Wants to drown in the blue of Arthur’s eyes, feel the callouses on his hands. Wants, with a desperate pull in his belly, to reach out and take Arthur’s hand, looks to it resting on Rosie’s flank and knows it would be easy.

Albert is aglow with smiles and compliments and gratitude when they ride back around to him. He claps his hands together, “Thank you so much, gentlemen. I cannot thank you enough.” Mason chatters to Arthur, and Charles occupies himself with looking to the camera set up on its tripod. That moment of racing through the valley must have been captured on the film, but Charles cringes at the thought of seeing it, of losing that perfection left in time.

“Now, now, don’t get ahead of yourself. Remember what happened with that coyote?” Arthur pokes with laughter still in his voice.

Albert withers at the reminder, “Yes I know. I’ll take these shots back and be sure to sort through them this time. Copy some bigger prints if I can.” He fishes around in one of his bags and takes out a photograph, washed out tones of a coyote running off with a bag. “This was the best I could salvage from that coyote. The most foolish I’ve been in years; I can assure you. Here, as thanks for helping me with that one.” Mason offers the photograph to Arthur, and he takes it with a blinding smile.

“Thank you kindly, Mr. Mason.”

Mason nods and smiles and clasps his hands together. “Thank you both so much. Thank you so much Arthur. It was good to meet you, Charles.”

Charles nods along while Arthur tips his hat. “Stay safe out here, Mr. Mason. Wouldn’t want to have to save your hide again.”

The way Arthur’s eyes linger, or maybe they don’t, are all Charles can see, how Arthur smiles to Mason, how easy he stands in the other man’s space. But again, not his, and he smothers those thoughts. Kicks that aside to hold on to the feeling of galloping through seas of grass and not caring about what is his.

He climbs onto Taima’s saddle and follows Arthur’s lead as he waves and sets them trotting back toward the trail. They leave Mason behind, dirt packed in under the horses’ hooves. After a few hills, rising toward the sunlight and dropping back again, he looks over. Arthur is still smiling, warm in the sun, and Charles cannot bring himself to ignore that. “You’ve helped him before?”

“’Helped’ might be a strong word.”

“That sounds like a story.”

“Sort of. He’s getting better about messing with dangerous wildlife. Nearly got himself eaten alive by wolves last time.” Arthur rolls his eyes, starts to talk, and Charles settles into the sprawling comfort of Arthur’s voice. Not his.

* * *

Hands at Sean’s shoulders, crushing the bones, meaty fingers digging in. The thumps of fists and boots striking at his back, his ribs, echoing in his chest. Pain at his feet, his hands, burning, aching, nothing brave about it just the kind of pain that makes you want to scream. And he does. He screams. He screams bloody murder until he wishes they’d just cut his tongue out already.

Sean scrambles awake and only flinches back just in time to keep from punching Lenny. Poor sod is snoring like a bear in the next bedroll over, just like he always does, and that tells Sean he is in camp, he isn’t back with those men, he is free, he is safe. The gang came back for him, Arthur rescued him, all is fine. He feels his lungs crack. Broken eggshells. He rubs a hand at his eyes, presses in against the salty stinging meat of them. His shirt is drenched in sweat, collar bones slick with it. A mosquito buzzes too close to his ear and he cannot bring forth the energy to bat it away.

Fingernails dig into his arms and he relaxes his grip after a minute. No need for that. No need to let the fear welling up his throat out into the air. Speaking of air, it’s stifling in their tent. Always is this far south. With just a roll of canvas slung over a rope it is about as close to sleeping under the stars as they can get, but it all feels too tight, too closed up. 

He wants to throw off his shirt and wipe up the sweat clinging at his back, but that would mean seeing his chest and his belly and the burnt trails of cigarettes they left behind. Keeps his shirt on, tugs at the hem.

Could leave the tent for some real air. But that thought crumples against the inside of his skull, paper balled up and tossed away. Dawn is a long way off, but someone will be on watch, and if someone catches sight of him like this it will be awful. Sweating and trembling and with his eyes stinging enough to be rimmed red from tears. Must look a sight, like a shaken header if ever there was one. Some of the others he doesn’t worry over, but Bill, Javier, they would dig at him. And if he remembers right tonight is Karen’s turn at the mid-night watch.

Nothing else for it but to lay back down, then. No way he can walk out there and risk her seeing him this way. Just have to stare at the canvas until light starts peaking through it. So, he lays down again, arms crossed and tucked tight over his chest. Digs a finger at the corner of his eye to dislodge sleep crusts. Tries to ignore how dry his mouth is and how the scars at his shoulder blades still twinge when he lays like this. Nothing else for it.

* * *

“Thank you, Abigail. I…I don’t know what I’d have done if not for you.” Sadie hefts her bedroll underneath her arm. She doesn’t have much in the way of possessions yet, a few weapons and her horse’s saddle, so moving them into her own tent in camp hasn’t been much of an event.

But it feels like it, in a way. Abigail folds a blanket over her arm and passes it over, knows she has little else to give. “Oh, hush. You would’ve gotten along just fine without me. You’ve gotta be the strongest woman I ever met.”

Sadie smiles, grim and tense as she ever is. “Well…thank you all the same. I appreciate you letting me stay with you and Jack.”

“Anytime, Sadie. Now get gone; ain’t like we’ll be that far away.” Abigail smiles and waves an arm to shoo the other woman off to her own tent. There is a nod, slow footsteps, and Sadie walks the few feet to her own tent and ducks underneath the canvas to get her things settled.

Abigail had been happy to share with Sadie back when they first arrived at Horseshoe Overlook; sleeping alongside the younger girls in the women’s wagon would have been too much for the grieving widow. But now she is healing, getting back to herself more each day, and Abigail knows Sadie needs this. It might be sad to see her move on, but it will be good for her to have her own space. Even if that is just a tent pole and some spare canvas.

Abigail sighs. Spent too much time already putting off chores. She needs to finish up the washing left over from yesterday and hang it out to dry. Needs to see about helping Miss Grimshaw with the mending; Sean goes through knee patches like no one she has ever met, and Arthur ripped the shoulder seam on one of his shirts again.

But first she stops, looks around for Jack, should check on him just in case. Just in case this newfound interest John has taken in their son was as short lived as it has been in the past. He walked over right after breakfast this morning as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

_“Morning, Abigail.” John clears his throat and tips his hat to her, and Abigail loses track of where her thoughts were going; he hasn’t done that in years._

_“Morning, John.” She does not know what else to say, not sure she wants to with how much her chest aches. But Jack decides for her._

_“Morning, Pa.” His bright little smile peaks out from behind her skirts._

_“Hey, Jack. How about you and me try reading again? Give your ma a break.” John isn’t smiling, rarely does, but at least she knows the grim line of his mouth is honest._

_“Again? But I already read all the kid books we have.” Jack scuffs his shoe at the red dirt._

_Before Abigail can admonish Jack for pouting, “No, you ain’t. I picked up a new one in town. Come on.” John waves his arm, reeling in Jack like a fish. The boy hesitates, looks up at Abigail with those big brown eyes, and she nods just to see him dash forward. The cracks around her heart are easy to forget when she sees Jack smile like that._

_John meets her eye, nods and looks away in that skittish way of his. Jack follows his father to the games table where John pulls up a pair of chairs. Jack clambers up onto his seat, swings his little legs over the edge, looks up at John with such impatience. “What’s the book about, Pa? Come on! I want to see it!”_

_John’s laugh sounds dusty like a cracked horse hoof. “Slow down, kid. Reading ain’t a race.”_

And they are still sitting there now, heads bent down and John pointing to the pages. Jack’s mouth sounding out the words as they go.

Abigail knows not to hope, not in this life, and she won’t hope for herself, refuses to, spent too long hoping John would love her. But she can hope for Jack, can hope for his sake that his father cares about him.

She breathes in deep, lets her ribs push out against her dress, and she walks over to chuckwagon to fetch the washboard and start on those clothes.

* * *

Arthur rides out to his stash of money every other week. Any more than that and he worries someone will notice, follow him, find it and take it. But any less than that and his mind drives him wild worrying over it. Gnaws at him with every step that someone could find all that money and just take it. Not just the money but the jewels, the gold. There are so many odds and ends now he ended up robbing a stagecoach and taking the lockbox to keep everything out of the weather. It is hidden in a shallow cave near O’Creagh’s run, for now, tucked into the hillside and invisible from the road. For a while, he had the lockbox in the hollow rocks at the center of the lake, where he found the Jack Hall Gang treasure, but once the thought occurred to him that someone else might have those same map fragments and clues he rode like hell back to the lake and scoured the hillsides until he found a suitable cave. It’s barely big enough for him to crawl into, and the box is tucked a good twenty feet toward the back under a pile of loose rocks.

He rode out today to check, to tally, something he wishes he could persuade himself to not do. Feels too much like Strauss with that little book of his. But it was all there, and for a little while he can pretend that all is right with the world. That none of this, sneaking around and hiding money from Dutch, is wrong.

Should move the box next time he checks it. He isn’t sure where else he could hide it, but the worry is starting to itch at him more and more, horsefly bites turned red and prickling. Nothing else for it though. He has to trust in some measure of luck, has to hope for the best. Have a little faith.

Riding out there means being near O’Creagh’s Run and it itches at him every time. After Old Man Cassidy’s message and seeing that damn stag that Arthur is almost sure was never real. _I can see it. Your future. You’re going to die. In a wash of ash and blood and bone._ Of course that deer wasn’t real, no way it could be. No buck would have had antlers like that, not so early in spring, not so huge and branching the tines could have stood taller than Arthur himself.

But he ignores that, taps his spurs into Rosie’s sides as the Three Sisters disappear behind them. The morning sun is only just starting to fade with the heat of the day, and after riding through Emerald Ranch he veers toward the East and the Kamassa River.

Now that the camp is so far into Lemoyne, Arthur cannot come up with an excuse good enough to not explore the bayous and swamps. There are bugs and beasts and strange things, but he manages to find a handful of treasures sometimes. It surprises him to find so many houses being overtaken by the swamps, half submerged in water and leaning into the red mud. Or maybe it isn’t so surprising; he would abandon a house too if it started to seep back into the sorrows of this place.

Finding one of these same houses he hasn’t picked through, broken out windows and moss leeching up the siding, he creaks up the old steps and pushes at the door. It swings back on its hinge, no lock or latch, and Arthur starts peaking into every nook and cranny he can find. If Hosea taught him anything in all their years travelling together, it was to never leave a stone, drawer, or rug unturned.

Arthur does just that, pocketing things as he goes. A lone watch ticking away in a jewelry box, a sack of cash stuffed into one of the bedroom pillows, a bottle of bourbon tucked into the bedside table drawer. He holds the glass bottle and tries to read the paper label where it is water damaged and peeling, but his eyes catch on the drawer itself, the inside,

_You want something new._ The message is etched into the wood of the drawer, carved with angry passes of a blade. Splinters of wood litter the bottom.

Arthur stills, keeps his eyes open and tries not to blink because he feels a creeping sense on his shoulders that this place is not safe. None of it is. Nothing was ever safe in this sinking house. He stuffs the bourbon into his satchel and backs out of the bedroom, waves a hand behind him to feel for the doorway. Grit, silt, lingers on his tongue. Tastes of red and rot. For a moment he cannot hear anything, none of the calls and croaks of the swamps outside, and he bolts for the door.

The porch steps do not trip him on the way out, though they easily could. So too could the muddy trail leading up to the house stairs, puddles of stagnant water collecting on the sides. Mud sucks at his boots as he rushes back toward the main road.

Rosie dances where he left her, hooves tapping in the red mud to keep from touching it, her coat twitching with nerves. Eyes blown wide with fear. Arthur hurries to her, pulls himself up into the saddle and holds tight as she bolts down the road.

He hates these damn swamps, hates them so much.

* * *

Hosea would never say this aloud, but he thinks he might understand Uncle just a bit more than he used to. The old coot is still as lazy as a dead dog, but complaints about back pain and sore joints hit home for Hosea so much more than they would have just a few years ago. Feels like he’s aged twenty years in the past five.

Mornings are the worst, with heavy moisture in the air weighing down his joints. It takes a couple cups of coffee to get moving and even then, he feels too slow. Dutch makes jokes about it just to see him bristle.

_“You’re getting old, Hosea.”_

_“Oh shut up, Dutch. Someday you’ll be grayer than me.”_

Whenever he is in camp, more often than he ever remembers from years past, he invites Kieran to eat breakfast with him. Feels like the least he can do. The kid is still too thin, ragged and afraid of quick movements. At first, Hosea kept an eye on him to gauge a new threat to his family, but that settled itself down easy after a while; hard not to once Arthur started talking to Kieran and being kinder to the poor boy. Now, Hosea notices how Kieran stays out with the horses long after Pearson rings the bell hanging under the chuckwagon awning. Not always, but the days when some of the men are in camp – Bill, Javier, Micah – Kieran keeps to himself out there, skips breakfast as if he can afford to. Though, Hosea knows the boy sees no choice in the matter.

The next morning, Hosea grabs an extra plate and calls the boy over, shoves it into his hands. “C’mon, kid. Get some meat on your bones. You’re starting to look scrawnier than me.” He sits at the campfire with his own food, keeps his eyes forward as Kieran warily sits beside him. Like a spooked yearling this boy is.

Kieran clutches at the tin plate as if Hosea means to take it back from him. But when he doesn’t, when the others greet Kieran politely if not kindly, there comes a small, “Thank you, Mr. Matthews.” beside him.

Hosea finds himself spending more time in camp, reading and people-watching and being a general nuisance. At least that is what Susan calls him, shaking her head and waggling her finger at him like the overgrown child he is. Arthur smiles when he wanders past, but rolls his eyes and calls Hosea a lazy old man anyway.

Strange thing with Arthur is that he isn’t in camp near as much as he used to. Always out and about, running some errand. Hosea isn’t sure how much he wants to doubt that excuse yet, but he hopes Arthur is keeping out of trouble at least. The few days he happens to be in camp seem to be lazy ones, and Hosea catches him hiding by his wagon and sketching in his journal more often than not.

Hosea knows that look; the way Arthur keeps his arm tucked over whoever he is drawing. They caught him doing that all the time back when the poor boy first met Mary, all those years ago. Blue eyes peaking behind him and all around to make sure no one sees him drawing soft like that. Not that anyone bothers peaking much anymore. Sean sometimes, but that is more to get a laugh and a rise out of Arthur more than anything. Make him snap the book shut and yell about young fools with no respect for their elders.

But Hosea knows that look, and he knows what it means; he certainly wasn’t born yesterday. It would take a blind fool to not see how Arthur’s eyes never stray too far from Charles, how the two gravitate toward each other without intending to. Not that it is any of Hosea’s business. Not yet, anyway; waiting out Arthur’s oblivious fear has always been a longer game than Hosea prefers to play.

At night Hosea lingers at the campfires with his family, sits in the glow and the warmth of them. Listens to Sean and Lenny sing their hearts out while Javier tries to follow their tune on his guitar. He never quite can, and more often than not he ends up yelling for the two to shut up. But that earns a laugh from everyone, and the uproar of all their voices must sound like coyotes cackling from a distance.

When the darkness of the night creeps in closer, and the air cools enough to breathe comfortably, he says his goodnights and wanders back to his tent.

His tent.

It feels so strange to have this again, a canvas roof over his head, a cot to lay his old bones on. It feels good to have. A few walls between him and the world. He jokes with Javier, asks if he can come back to their shared lean-to anytime soon, and he always gets a snicker in response, _“Sorry, Hosea, but Charles is a better bunkmate than you; never snores, no tossing and turning. I think I’m getting better sleep than I’ve had in years.”_

And that is just fine by Hosea because he’s not sure if he could go back to sleeping on the ground after this. After what Arthur was kind enough to do for him. _“It ain’t much…”_ But it is, and as Hosea sits on his cot, tugs off his boots for the day, he wonders at how he could ever break it to Arthur how much this does mean. How much he treasures this small show of care.

* * *

Jack walks past Dutch’s tent in the late summer sun, dragging a stick behind him with his head down. Dutch wonders about bothering, but decides to cast out a net anyway, though he rarely gets anything out of Jack when he does. “What brings you to my neck of the woods, Jackie-boy?”

“Hi, Uncle Dutch. Just thinking about what I want to be when I grow up.” Jack’s face, always so damn serious, even when he’s happy.

“Oh really? A young boy of five already worrying about what he plans to do for the rest of his life. That’s ambitious of you.”

“I want to be a gunslinger when I grow up! Like my pa, and Uncle Arthur, and you too Uncle Dutch.” Jack’s voice is so high, so bright. It cuts through the lake air.

Dutch’s laughter sneaks up on him, fast and quick, and it is all he can do to try and cover it. “Over your mama’s dead body.”

Jack’s face pinches and his tiny hand curls into a fist at his side. “But you always say-,”

Dutch settles his weight into the heels of his boots, looks down at a boy so strong and yet so small. “Son, that freedom to choose what you want to do with your life, that right there is why we fight. Why we live the way that we do. Because no one, not no one man, can ever tell another how to live. It is the greatest part of the human experience; no matter where we are, no matter what we do, we are all still human men fighting for our freedom and that choice.”

His words are met with silence, though he expects that anymore, not just from Jack but from everyone.

Jack mulls on it long enough to say, “But Hosea says-,”

Dutch surveys the camp as Jack prattles on, listens with a quarter of one ear, watches as John walks between the tents with his head on a swivel. Jack must be what he is looking for because he catches sight of the boy and walks over, ducks his head when he meets Dutch’s eye.

That hasn’t felt right either, lately. Not quite like Arthur, no, no one has felt quite like Arthur recently, but still not good. Starting to doubt, starting to fear for others besides himself. Unpredictable.

John’s steps are ambling, lazy, as he wanders up to them. Or, he makes it look that way, tries to hide how quick his hands go to Jack’s shoulders and starts steering him away, “Jack, you don’t need to be bothering him with none of that. Sorry, Dutch.”

“No need to apologize, son. That boy is a treasure.” Dutch sees John’s hint of a smile at that even though he hides it under his hat. Hard not to see it with how bright it is.

Jack is unphased, which is probably the best quality the kid has picked up from any of them. “Bye, Uncle Dutch!” and starts chattering to John’s ear, “Pa, I was telling Uncle Dutch that I’m going to be the greatest gunslinger in the west when I grow up. And I-,”

“Over my dead body.” John mumbles, and they head off to some other spot in camp.

Dutch smirks at what John let slip. Marvels at how stupid John can be yet how loyal he is. A swell of pride in his chest. Hosea would call him a puffed up rooster if he could see him now, but that is just fine. Nothing wrong with taking some pride in the family he has built, this group of people so strong he marvels at them sometimes.

* * *

Lenny finds his hands edging for a knife, for a scrap piece of wood, far more than he is comfortable with. Out of all the nervous habits he could have picked up by the time he’s twenty, he knows this one isn’t half bad. Whittling is just an easy way to kill time. But it means that every chance he gets he sits at the front of camp, watches the comings and goings of everyone. Tries to keep track of wherever the hell Micah rides off to all the time.

Not that he has found out anything, noticed anything. Sure, Micah is an asshole, and sure, he acts some kind of strange, and sure he rarely stays in camp for more than a day or two, but that does not mean he is betraying them.

_“Don’t pay him no attention, kid. I’ve got this.” Micah waves a heavy hand in front of Lenny’s face, already drunk and the sun hardly setting yet._

_Lenny leans away from the crawling gurgle of beer that is Micah’s breath and turns to watch the man standing at the saloon doors. He surveys the crowd, the drunks and the working girls, looks right past Lenny as though he is an empty bar stool, and walks straight at Micah’s turned back. The hat and shoes are both too shiny to be a working man, and there is a gleaming pistol perched on his hip._

_He gets close to them, sets a hand on Micah’s shoulder, “Excuse me, are you Mr.-,”_

_Micah turns fast as a water snake and his gun fires before Lenny can blink. There is a spray of blood and screaming and the man writhes on the floor while he dies. Micah stumbles up from his stool, shatters a beer bottle against the bar and starts laughing, but that is all Lenny knows because he bolts from the saloon, out the back door and around the neighboring businesses. Through bushes and behind wood piles. Knows he has to get to Maggie and ride back to camp and tell Dutch because he can still hear screaming and the yelling of law men is not far off. Just his luck Micah had to pull a stunt._

Something doesn’t add up about it, never did, and Lenny chips another strip of bark from the branch in his hands. Arthur believed him, sure, but by now Lenny isn’t even sure if that is what he saw or not.

A flash of pain strikes at his thumb and he shakes out his hand. “Aw shit,” He sticks his finger in his mouth to hold back the bleeding. Copper and warmth floods over his tongue. Stupid mistake.

It is so frustrating to have next to nothing on Micah. Lenny thought he would have something by now, but he doesn’t. Nothing to bring up to Dutch, or Hosea, or Arthur. Nothing to show for all the time he’s wasted sitting here. All the wood wasted on this damned habit of his.

The sunshine drives into his eyes and he picks up his things to move into the shadow of the great oak at the center of camp. Tucks his book under his arm, wedges his knife into it’s sheathe at his belt. Keeps his stupid finger in his mouth because the copper taste hasn’t gone away just yet.

As he passes the oak trunk he squints up into the branches, spies a boot and pant leg hanging down from one of the upper branches. A thought strikes him and his feet still. Maybe he doesn’t have to do this alone. He tucks his book into the waist of his pants and calls out into the tree leaves, “Hey, Sean!”

A sputter, a sleepy mumble, and Sean’s face appears over one of the branches. “Whatcha want, Summers?”

Lenny grimaces up at the height of the tree. He knows Sean is good at climbing trees, always has been, but this one looks a hell of a lot taller than the ones back at Horseshoe, or the ones back in Blackwater. “How did you get up there?”

“Climbed.” Lenny rolls his eyes. “Oh, don’t give me that look, Summers. You asked the stupid question.” Sean rolls his eyes right back.

“Can I come up there?” Lenny ventures, looking at the tree trunk to figure out how Sean climbed up. There is a notch in the trunk where an old branch broke off, but nothing else he can see.

“Can as sure as shite.” Sean nods, folds his arms underneath his chin. He looks like a cat that got the cream.

The silence hangs until Lenny huffs, “Will you help me up there?”

Sean’s gap toothed smile turns bright and insufferable. “Sure, Summers! Be happy to help you. Stick your foot in that there notch and hike up here.” Sean calls out, moving down to the lower branches and holding his hand out as far down as he can reach.

Lenny sighs, hikes his foot into a hole nestled part way up the trunk, and heaves himself upward. Sean’s hand grabs ahold of his and pulls, wrenches him up to scramble and grasp at a branch. “Oh, stop your scrabbling, Summers! Just grab ahold of a branch and stop worrying about hitting the ground. Ain’t that hard.” Sean laughs, moving around as confidently as a squirrel. He settles back against the trunk in a relaxed arch that looks perfect for sleeping the day away. His boot hangs over the branch and dangles in the breeze, tapping a rhythm into the air, so unsecured and so unconcerned.

Oak leaves flutter around their heads, and Lenny tries to stop thinking about how much a fall from this height would hurt. They are higher than he thought they would be, and he certainly doesn’t know how they are going to climb down. He settles his hands on the bark, keeps his legs still, and winces when a twig snags on his cut finger. He sticks his finger back in his mouth to hide the blood.

“What are you sucking on your finger for? You cut yourself again? Told you that whittling business was gonna bleed you dry.” Sean looks more at ease than he ever does on the ground, hands folded behind his head and leaning back against the sun warmed bark.

Lenny tries to see that posture and take some confidence from it, reminds himself that a fall from this tree wouldn’t kill him. Might break a bone, would hurt his pride, but it wouldn’t kill him. “Just cut my finger is all.”

Sean hums, looks unconvinced, and his foot stops swinging. “Whatcha got going on in that book of yours?” Sean asks, his eyes as direct as an eagle stare.

“Just reading.”

“Ain’t no ‘just’ about it. I seen you scribbling in that thing a bunch. I might not know much about book learning, but I know you aren’t supposed to write in those feckers.”

Lenny hesitates. Would it be so bad? To tell Sean and have someone else know about this? MacGuire might just call him crazy, which would be fine, because at least that he can brush off.

“I…Does Micah seem strange to you?” Lenny hedges, regrets it a moment later. Should just come out and say it.

“Scuttering gobshite he is. But Dutch says he stays, so he stays.” The bitterness in Sean’s tone is surprising, and when Lenny peaks over, there is a scowl set into his friend’s face. “He ain’t a part of the…well you know what I mean. Arthur said he’d been trying to look into why the the bastard got arrested a month back but said he couldn’t find nothing.”

Lenny peaks over the side of the branch he’s sitting on, looks around on the ground for anyone who might be listening. “Yeah. I was in the saloon with him when it happened. He…A lawman was walking up to him and acting like he was going to talk to him. No guns out, not a bounty hunter looking to take him in, just a man walking up to talk to him. And he looked like law, too. Had the gun and the nice clothes, you know? And Micah just shoots him. Made me think that…well that he might…”

“You’re trying to say he’s a rat, ain’t you?” Sean’s face is serious, more serious than Lenny has ever seen it. It scares him for a moment but then a breeze rushes through the tree leaves and he looks down and the vertigo makes him cling to his branch with both arms wrapped around it.

The fear makes his voice shudder. “Sean, I-,”

“Don’t worry, Summers. I’ve been thinking the same.” Sean reaches a hand forward and pulls Lenny back to a sitting position, rolls his eyes at how Lenny clings to the bark. “We had a train job a while back, and Arthur said something about the law showing up too quick. And that cluster back in Blackwater. Someone is talking, and I’d bet a lot on Bell being the reason.”

“Huh…thought I’d have to talk you into it. But that’s why I’ve been sitting around camp so much. I’m trying to see when he comes back to camp and when he leaves. See if there’s a pattern or something. But I haven’t told anybody because I don’t really have anything on him.”

Sean rolls that around in his head for a minute. A robin starts trilling from one of the branches, loud and so much closer than Lenny is used to. But Sean swipes a half grown acorn from one of the branches and lobs it toward the bird. A squawk and the trilling stops. “You ever follow him out of camp? See where he goes? Find out who he talks to?”

“No. I don’t have a death wish.”

“Well, you gotta take risks to make things happen, Summers.” Sean claps a hand on his shoulder, smile back on his face, and the force is nearly enough to unseat Lenny again. “I’m thinking you and I can handle this, start looking into just where the hell Mr. Bell’s heading off to. See what we find, take our time. Got to be careful with this. After all, we don’t want to wreck the gaff too soon, right?”

Lenny has no idea what that means. So, he nods, keeps a tight hold on the tree bark. “Hey, Sean, how do we get down from here?”

* * *

_“Charles.”_ Such a rough voice, for all that it can say such soft things. Soft words but such strength behind them. Blue eyes so quick to let things show. So quick to be afraid and look away.

Hands at Charles’ cheeks, the skin warm and rough with callouses. Ridges of fingerprints tracing under his eyes, gentle, up along his cheekbones and settling at his temples. A short press of lips, dry, chapped, but warm, on his brow. A gentle pressure there, foreheads resting together. Warm air shared between them. So close to,

_“Charles.”_

Charles opens his eyes to pale sunlight leeching through canvas. He does not turn his head, knows he will see Javier lying in his own bedroll. The man never snores, but he snuffles and adjusts every once in a while. Charles can hear it now, the shuffle of blankets, the twitter of morning birdsong in the tree above their tent.

Not real, then. Not his. Not something to have in the waking world.

* * *

After only a night or two away from camp, Arthur finds himself yearning for the comfort of it, for the safety of camp and his family. Used to be fine being gone a week or two at a time, riding in loaded down with cash and stories and a full beard. _Unless you change. For yourself. For them._ And it might be alright with him, this change. Would rather ride out every day than be gone from them. Settles under his lungs and feels comfortable there. Not a bad thing to want to come back to this, to them. And it’s nice to be able to shave every few days, keep from looking scruffy.

Even now, riding back after two days away, feels like a little too much. He hitches Rosie at one of the camp posts, waving Kieran off when the kid dashes over through the noon sun and meadow grass to take the reins. Kieran falters, but he nods and goes back to brushing one of the draft horses. “Good to see you back, Arthur.”

“Thanks, Duffy.” Arthur reminds himself to throw those words out; no use being rude for rudes sake. He reaches a hand under to unbuckle Rosie’s saddle, turns his head to lean against the slope of her ribcage, and he spies Micah stooped under his lean-to and rifling through the papers left on his table.

Arthur’s heartbeat stops, and then it shifts into overdrive, racing against the bones of his ribs like it’s trying to fly away. The muscles of his stomach tense and bunch up.

“Hey, Kieran,” He calls, anger leaking through his voice as he watches Micah pick up something and toss it back onto the table.

“Y-yes, Mr. Morgan?” Kieran’s voice is not as shrill with fear like it used to be, but the use of his last name makes Arthur hesitate, makes him lighten his tone.

“Ah, sorry. Would you mind untacking her? I gotta…” He lets himself trail off, does not want to take his eyes off of Micah’s turned back.

“Sure thing, Arthur.” Kieran starts walking over, and Arthur gives in to the urge to stalk towards his lean-to.

At first, camp looks pretty empty to him, but there is a little crowd gathered around the chuckwagon – Pearson must have just rung the bell for lunch. Perfect time to avoid attention and sift through people’s things.

And Micah is doing just that. He’s reading through one of the papers Arthur left on the table, probably a letter or scrap he found in his travels. Then he kneels down and starts rooting through the crate of loose papers Arthur has been meaning to burn. But that means his back is turned and Arthur tries to walk over without making a ruckus, tries to keep his anger leashed. He walks up right behind Micah, wants to grab at the man’s shoulder, throw him into the mud, but Arthur holds that back, knows Dutch hates fighting in camp. Doesn’t want to make more of a scene than this has to be.

“What in the hell are you doing rooting around through my stuff.” Some chained, slavering part of Arthur revels in the flinch at Micah’s shoulders, how his entire body stills as he thinks of how to talk his way out of this.

“Mr. Morgan,” Micah grunts as he stands up, shifting his weight to his heels as if he is not preparing to run away the moment this turns ugly, “I was doing no such thing. Was just looking through these papers for a hint as to how long you might be gone this time round. Seems nowadays like you spend more time out of camp than in. I had some urgent business to discuss with you.”

A dog baring its teeth on the end of a chain. Arthur leans in close, enough to smell the stink of an afternoon cigarette on Micah’s breath. “What the hell do you want, Micah?”

Another stutter of fear, gone quick and painless. Micah’s murky eyes dart around, looking for something on Arthur’s face that he must find, because something flashes in his skull, a glint of a rattler’s teeth behind his eyes. It unsettles something in Arthur’s stomach, and he straightens his spine against it. “Well, now that you’re back, how about we discuss this over a game of dominos. You’re always playing with the others; thought you might join me in a game while we talk business? Been looking into a job that I think could benefit from your, uh…special skills.”

Arthur feels a taste like hot iron on the back of his tongue. Dust and ashes. “Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: I fixed a tiny, tiny plot hole in this one. So tiny, literally none of you noticed. I hope :D


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